


Maledictus

by osunism



Series: The Warmth of Your Doorway [7]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Colorism, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Imperialism, Interracial Relationship, Original Black Female Character - Freeform, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Racism, Rivain, Rivaini People, Smut, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-25 05:40:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 38
Words: 167,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3798841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osunism/pseuds/osunism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year and a day since the events of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3751876/chapters/8326540"><i>Post Tenebras Lux</i></a>, Samson and Hadiza are working and fighting together in the Inquisition. Thedas is on the mend, and all seems to be well in hand. But everything has a price, and sometimes the currency isn't currency at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PROLOGUE: A Year & A Day

**Author's Note:**

> So, apparently, I couldn't stop and this ship shall never sink. So I'm going to blow some holes in it in this fic because no relationship is perfect. Especially one where the hero and villain attempt to be together. See the original Tumblr serial, [here](http://milkdromeduh.tumblr.com/post/118132691347/maledictus-masterpost-ao3-ffn-rating), and listen to the soundtrack [here](http://8tracks.com/capriciousmuse/m-a-l-e-d-i-c-t-u-s). It should be noted before you begin that for those who are reading this story as a stand-alone: while this is possible, it is highly recommended that you read [_Blue Smoke_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3135110/chapters/6795638) to glean the context of the latter parts of this tale. _Maledictus_ will take place over the two year timespan between the events of _Inquisition_ and _Trespasser_. However, given how I've diverged from canon a bit, there may be some spillover into a third year toward the last arc of the story.
> 
> Now that I've doled out the disclaimers and the like, I hope you enjoy reading this story. I really enjoyed writing it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Calm before the storm.

**(** Art by Me **)**

* * *

             They waited for a year and a day. They bided their time, playing nice for the sake of her reputation and that of the Inquisition. They were careful not to linger too long in one another’s presence in public, careful not to let touches ghost too intimately on the surfaces of their public selves, and they were so careful to hide the mutual hunger in their gazes when they caught happenstance glances of one another in passing.

            They waited for a year and a day, and they were careful.

            That caution that could make even a startled prey animal look careless, was reserved only as far as the door to her bedchamber.

            The bedchamber of the Inquisitor was a quiet place, and steeped in the taste of luxury that she had seen in Orlais. A trail of clothes, armor, and an abandoned stack of papers led to the bed, which seemed _alive_ beneath the rather animated bodies atop it.

            Hadiza’s nails raked along Samson’s back, hard and slow, relishing the feel of powerful muscles rolling beneath her touch. She tried to wrap her legs around his waist, but he held them splayed open, splitting her wide and wild, allowing for deeper, unimpeded access. Each thrust moved her across the bed until her head thumped against the headboard, cushioned only by the single pillow she lay upon. Each forward thrust was met with her hips rising to meet his, and she gasped, the sound nigh drowned out by the clacking of the headboard against the wall.

            She begged him wordlessly, eyes shutting as she sobbed out expletives and blessings alike, beseeching him as he laughed rudely into the sweat-slick skin of her neck, planting his lips on the fever cadence of her pulse to suck at the salted flesh.

            His name was dragged out of her open mouth as he switched suddenly to long, torturous strokes, letting her feel every movement as he hooked her legs over his shoulders, grunting as she crossing her ankles behind his head.

            The bed protested against their combined weight, the headboard setting the cadence to their passionate commingling, and Hadiza felt as if she were going to fly apart as somehow he managed to stroke the parts of her that made her react the most violent.

            “Gonna come for me, princess?” He asked wickedly, his grin giving a twinkle to his hazel eyes. Hadiza knew what he wanted, and they’d wagered on it. She hadn’t come yet, and was deliberately fighting her own climax. Samson would not win this wager.

            But then, they’d only just gotten started.

            “No…” She managed to eke out but it came out a long, deep, and throaty moan as Samson moved his hips in such a way that it made her pulse stumble and liquid heat pool in her belly. He raised his brows at her as if to ask if she conceded to defeat. She shook her head, defiant to the last.

            “Mmm,” Samson purred as he stroked deeper, then teased her with shallow thrusts, “not much of a liar, are you, princess?”

            Hadiza’s eyes went wide as he shrugged her legs from his shoulders, spreading them wide. Then, he reached between their conjoined bodies and began to lightly circle her clit with his thumb. She bit her lip as a high and shrill sound leaked out. Samson laughed.

            “Come for me,” he told her, “it’ll be worth your while, I promise.” The combination of his languorous strokes and the circling of her clit with just enough pressure to electrify her body was too much. Hadiza’s eyes rolled back, her mouth falling open as the first flutters of her climax washed over her, a golden warmth that made the slide between them all the more slick. Samson growled in pleasure, riding out that gentle yet deep climax as he began another punishing rhythm. He’d won the wager and so now he took his pleasure, sitting back on his heels and grasping her waist to pull her back and forth along the length of his cock, hard, fast, and deep. Hadiza had no choice but to hold on, well beyond caring who heard her as she cried out, yelping with each impact of their flesh, the sound of it loud and utterly erotic in the relative silence of her bedchamber.

            She came again, and her clenching sex was what drove him over the edge. He growled out his climax, thrusting hard and deep, filling her with his seed as he shut his eyes, his mind wiped clean as all focus dwindled down to the twitching of his cock inside of her. It was just the way he loved to start their evenings: mind clear, balls _empty_.

            Not much later, they lay in one another’s arms, catching their breath. Samson idly circled the dewy, satiny skin of Hadiza’s hip. He’d never been more satisfied in his life, he realized, and now he was free to love her in public, though they still weren’t flaunting it. He might have pinched her bottom here or there, offered her a gentle kiss on occasion, but this? This wanton, wild side of the normally composed and self-assured woman? That was his to cherish in private. Only he allowed himself the pleasure of knowing just how deep the well of Hadiza’s desires ran. And Maker help him they were deep. The woman was delightfully insatiable and it suited his enhanced stamina just fine. He could fuck her for as long, deep, and thoroughly as she liked, and riding her hard just to put her away wet was one of the many talents he offered to her exclusively.

            The other part was that he was unabashedly in love with the woman.

            “Feel better?” He asked her slyly and she made a murmuring noise that was more purr than anything. Samson chuckled, turning his head to press a kiss to her crown, shutting his eyes as he breathed her in. He briefly remembered all that it took for him to reach this point, and he realized he had her to thank for most of it. She had given him back his life—his _true_ life—where others would have left him to rot in a dungeon for the rest of his days. She didn’t have to, but she saw something in him that even he hadn’t believed was there.

            “Orlesians always get you wound up too tight, princess. I told you not to let them get to you.” He murmured to her and she sighed, her hand resting on his chest, fingers idly tangling in strands of his chest hair.

            “I know,” she huffed, “I could just strangle Celene, honestly. Why didn’t I let her get assassinated? Ugh.” Samson smiled, staring at the ceiling.

            “Because you’re a big fuckin’ hero. Besides, she signed the fuckin’ treaty, didn’t she? Inquisition gets to keep all the land it claimed, and stay neutral, yeah?” He watched as she propped herself up just enough to look at him. These were moments he lived for, when he could look at her, marvel at all the little curves, lines, and angles that shaped her face, the startling preternatural gray of her eyes, the fall of her thick, black hair, and the richness of her dark skin.

            “Yes, she signed the treaty, but made no end to her needling about doing it. Sod her bloody Game. Also, that treaty, among other important documents, happens to be on the floor under your trousers, my love.” Her full lips quirked and Samson shrugged.

            “I was in a hurry, darling; you can’t blame me.” He grinned at her, all wickedness and unapologetic lasciviousness. Hadiza didn’t blame him, not when he did things to her that made her toes curl, then looked at her in a way that made her heart somersault in the birdcage of her chest.

            “I will blame you, anyway, you wicked, wicked man,” she teased, circling his chest with her forefinger, “tempting me away from my Inquisitorial duties with promises of ceaseless sexual satisfaction.” Samson made a chortling noise, reached forward and flicked her nipple casually.

            “If I recall, weren’t you the one trying to stroke my cock under the dinner table this evening? And then leaning in and whispering…oh what the hell did you say? Oh! _I want you to fuck me bloody, tonight, love_.” Hadiza’s resulting shriek made him laugh, and he tumbled her once more, making good on those tempting promises she accused him of making.

            Life was in essence, very, very good. 

* * *

 

            They didn’t stay up as late as they usually did, as they had exhausted themselves rather thoroughly. Samson slept easy, untroubled and holding Hadiza close, his lips on her nape. He snored lightly, his breath puffing at her hair as she drifted deeper, boneless and content.

            When dawn came, they were slow to rise, and Samson wondered briefly if Blackwall and Aja would be particularly cross with him if he failed to show up at training that morning. He considered it, even as he trailed his fingertips along Hadiza’s sinuous spine, planting the gentlest of kisses to the nape of her neck in rare and unseen displays of affection. He reserved this tenderness solely for her, and he found himself unable to leave the bed. It was only when he remembered his promise to her a year ago that he slipped from the bed into the cool air of the bedchamber, leaving Hadiza slumbering peacefully amidst the tangled sheets and cocoon they’d made with the duvet.

            She was so still, save for the gentle expansion and contraction of her body as she breathed and nothing was more beautiful than knowing she was alive. And so was he.

            Samson washed up quickly, and dressed silently and efficiently, leaving Hadiza’s bedroom after dropping a tender and gentle kiss to her cheek. And then he was off to train, and even while he did, dancing about the practice field with Aja and Blackwall, honing his skills to a fine edge, he could not complain. He had not been declared the Inquisitor’s official Champion yet, but it went without saying that Samson’s main purpose was to protect Hadiza. So he wore his armor, and held his sun-shield high with pride, kept his blade sharp, and his senses sharper. She believed in the man he once was, but while he could never be that man again, he could become the man he wanted to be.

            Each day saw that in the realm of possibility.

            In the meanwhile, Hadiza opened her eyes, disappointed to find harsh sunlight shining directly into her face, and Samson’s spot long since grown cold in his absence. She stretched languidly, and then rolled into his spot, biting her lip as she caught wind of his scent. He disliked what he called her ‘bottles of Orlesian frippery’ in her bath, and opted for the hard, unscented bar of lye soap. Still, there was his natural scent, like pine bark and metal, as if he worked in the smithy. Hadiza reveled in the scent, smiling as it evoked pleasant memories.

            She lay on her back a moment longer, staring at the ceiling.

            And that was when she heard the whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We killed Corypheus in the last story. Just so we're clear. Seems some of y'all are confused about that.


	2. BOOK I: Whispers in the Cradle

            The first time she heard them, she was tending to the garden.

            Hadiza had taken to looking after her alchemical plants in Skyhold’s garden and Samson often teased her that despite everything it was the only time he ever saw her willing to get her hands dirty.

            “What?” She demanded, “I get my hands dirty in a fight.” Samson merely smiled, peering over her shoulder as she turned over fresh earth to pot the elfroot.

            “Oh no you don’t, princess,” he scolded, “you wear gloves in battle.” Hadiza paused, a retort hovering on the tip of her tongue when her hearing was momentarily drowned out by a hiss of her name. Hadiza dropped the tiny rake she’d been working with and gasped. Samson, who had become well versed in her mercurial changes in mood, narrowed his eyes. Hadiza’s brow knit in concentration and she cocked her head as if listening.

            “Huh.” She muttered, “Did you hear that?” Samson shook his head, perplexed. Hadiza sighed. Perhaps it was merely fatigue that had her hearing things, and she shrugged it off as merely thus.

            After her gardening was finished, the lunch bell rang. Samson had slowly regained the begrudging respect and tolerance of those in Skyhold, but there were still some who never forgot what he did—nor would he expect them to; he did not miss the black armbands worn by those who had lost loved ones and friends at Haven. He took this as a sign that his penance was as yet unfinished and that in their eyes, there were no amount of good deeds that would ever redeem his name.

            They still sang songs of him in the tavern, though not as often.

            Samson used those moments to remember that the only opinion that truly mattered was that of the woman he’d sworn to protect. He owed her his life, of a surety, but he knew he would have given her anything the moment he was thrust before her throne. He had been brought lower than his knees in the past; one did not serve Corypheus without some modicum of subjugation. He had been a templar, beggar, general, and prisoner; there was nothing these people could say or do that had he hadn’t already been through, and he knew that given his health, his years were numbered. He would take joy where he could find it, and if he found it in the company of the Inquisitor, then who the fuck were they to gainsay it?

            Samson didn’t question why Hadiza took her meals in her room most days. She cited it was because she wished to work in peace, which was partially true, but Samson suspected she had no desire to deal with the awkward silences and sidelong glances that came from her being so close to him. The thought of it made him angry, mostly that her own people would cast doubt on her because she chose him, and angry at her from not staring them down. Still, he’d not force the issue unless it was necessary. Hadiza was a woman who knew herself well enough to know her limits. There were still some who found her being a mage to be off-putting as she was in a position of nigh absolute authority. But she never exercised her authority like some corrupt despot. She delegated to her advisors and agents, and did the heavy lifting when the time called for it.

            And through the past year, Hadiza had traveled far and wide, closing rifts that had remained open, and she’d taken Samson with her. He had to admit, being on the side where slaying demons was the goal gave him a thrill. This was what he had been initially trained to do after all, and he suspected on some level Hadiza knew that it would get his blood pumping.

The first time they faced a pride demon together, he’d worried for her, but Maker was he wrong. Hadiza was fearsome when she knew her squad stood at the ready. He’d watched her climb the demon’s fucking back to hack at the armor around its head with the blade end of her staff. She moved like poetry and divinity, all lightning and fire and ice, tearing open the demon’s defenses and allowing the rest of the party to fall upon it. Samson joined in the slaying, the lyrium singing in his blood, his sword carving death, and that templar pride burning in his heart.

            It was the first night he’d told her he loved her, truly.

            She’d been startled to hear it, of course, but they were alone in her tent, not even out of their armor yet, and covered in demon gore. In that moment, she was the most beautiful person in the world to him, and so it came out, unbidden, a prayer hurled at her because he had no idea how to keep it inside. Hadiza had returned the sentiment and that had been the end of it. Samson was secure in the knowledge that this—what they had—was real. Together, they flourished; a templar and a mage, side by side, achieving a balance that even the Chantry could not balk at.

            Alongside, they fought.

            And now with the passage of time, Samson felt like both the man he once was, and a new person entirely. He sat next to Hadiza at the table, and the awkwardness passed. She ate with a healthy appetite—the woman could put food away!—and he ate prodigiously as well. As was their usual custom, Hadiza often took the sweets from his plate, and he teased her about her sweet tooth. Beneath the table, her free hand was caught in his and Samson felt his cheeks burn at the affection. He wasn’t used to it, and these small things, these small gentle gestures that were expressed between lovers was something he hadn’t felt in quite some time…or at all. A caress, a look, or the filling of the gaps between his fingers that he didn’t realize were lonely without her…all of these were new to him. Sure, behind closed doors it was easier. She loved sex as much as he did, but this? Ah, _this_ was moving him in an entirely different way.

            Lunch passed quickly, and after that, Hadiza called a war council, though these days it was merely a council. Samson did not attend these meetings with Hadiza, as she knew the friction it would cause with Cullen, which was something no one in Skyhold needed. So he let her go, secretly reluctant, and watched her join her advisors in the war room.

            Cullen passed by him and a winter wind couldn’t have been colder in that moment. Samson wanted to laugh. A year and a day had passed and the man still could not let go of his hatred, anger, or heartbreak. Ah well, there was nothing to be done for it. Cullen would either learn to live with it, or let his bitterness eat at him. Samson hoped, only for Hadiza’s sake, that Cullen at least separated his duty to the Inquisition from his feelings for the Inquisitor.

            And at one point, part of him relished that despite Cullen’s best efforts, Hadiza had still made her choice.

            There were things that lay between himself and the woman that were as yet unresolved, and while it had not become a cause of contention between them, he knew sooner or later he would have to let her see the demons he carried. He bided his time with other duties in the meanwhile, finding himself anxious to see her again. Even after all this time the sight of her was enough.

As per usual, he aided Master Dennet in the stables, finding comfort in the hard labor that left him too exhausted to be alone with his thoughts. He took heart in the easy conversation he had with the old horsemaster, most of it about life outside of the Inquisition. Samson found that the man frequently wrote to his wife regarding the strange breeds he tended to.

“She doesn’t find it strange?” Samson asked as he helped wash down the nuggalope which had become surprisingly docile that day, bearing the scrubbing with a lazy tolerance. Dennet shrugged, making a gruff sound as he sucked his teeth.

“We survived the Fifth Blight, ser, and had Fade rifts all over our farm” he said, “I don’t think much can surprise her anymore.” There was an agitated shriek from the dracolisk in its stall. Dennet narrowed his eyes.

“Although the Inquisitor taming that beast might raise an eyebrow or two.”

At that, Samson laughed.

Work continued apace as the sun sped across the sky. Samson worked tirelessly, until the bell rang to signify sunset. He returned to his chamber, which was blessedly unguarded now that he was technically a free man, and there he bathed, washing the day’s filth from his body. He’d managed to acquire the polished pane of a mirror, and examined himself. The year gone-by had been kinder to him than any year in the past decade. His muscle mass was returning thanks to his daily training sessions with Aja and Blackwall, and his skin was no longer as sallow and clammy as it had been. He no longer felt the twisting in his gut from the lyrium’s damage thanks to Hadiza’s dedicated efforts to reverse it, and he felt _clean_. His body felt clean and renewed, as if he were chipping away at the old veneer of corruption and filth to get to the man beneath.

His mind and soul were another matter.

Samson knew that eventually he would have to do something about the fissures in both, but for now, he admired his progress, bending his arm to watch the biceps flex smoothly. He could lift a sword with almost the same natural grace as he had before he’d ingested the red, and even the bloodshot look of his eyes was beginning to fade as his lyrium addiction ebbed and was stabilized.

He realized, in that moment, that perhaps his addiction had more to do with his environment than himself. It was easy to find so many reasons to chase the song of the blue, and so many templars succumbed to it to drown out all else. But Samson had found—unexpectedly—things he wanted to hear aside from the crystal notes of the lyrium in his blood…like _her_ laughter. He had found that his current environment was not one from which he desired complete and utter escape.

He’d also ingested so much lyrium that he could no longer feel the preternatural high that he once did when he’d been merely a beggar on the streets of Kirkwall. Now, he was feeling like the young, spry templar he had been in the glory days; the one the old knight-commander had been moved to gift with his sun-shield. He was a lot older, of course, with a bit of a receding hairline, the gravitas of age and experience in his eyes, and a bit heavier as well, but he felt it in his blood. He felt the old righteousness returning, the profound sense of purpose beating in his pulse, the sensation of hope being reborn.

He smiled and for the first time in a number of years did not dislike what he saw in the mirror.

  

* * *

 

 

Hadiza ran her hands over her face and sat down on her bed heavily.

She was exhausted.

Even with Corypheus a dead and twisted husk on the now-floating ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, she was still working to help restore much of Thedas. There were Fade rifts as yet still open, raining down demon havoc on unsuspecting people. Most of the council had been about diplomatic relations with the nobility. She’d managed to get the rulers of both Orlais and Ferelden to settle their differences, had acquired permission to continue to occupy their land, and now was in the middle of talks with the local banns and nobility about said land, which belonged to them.

All in all, it had been a trying day.

Nothing, however, was so trying as dealing with the gilded cage that had become her mind. The whispers had not abated, and several times during the council she had found herself distracted and unfocused, listening to the unintelligible murmuring that only she seemed to hear. Finally, fearing her productivity lost for the day, she had adjourned, begging to reconvene come the morning. She could barely remember anything that was said. Even Cullen’s cool disposition toward her seemed muted in the wake of the whispering. Now, in the cool solitude of her room, as dusk settled over Skyhold, Hadiza heard nothing. There was only silence.

Hadiza sat for a while longer, trying to clear her head. For once, being alone did not feel lonely so much as it felt that for a moment she could breathe and be herself. Life in the Circle seemed so far removed from this moment, and life back at the Trevelyan Estate was all but a figment in comparison. Hadiza could scarce recognize her past self as she reflected on the long road that had brought her here, to this lavish bedchamber with thousands at her command.

Was it happenstance or some far grander pattern that set the wheels of her life spinning toward this moment?

_‘Tis your own weakness which hinders you; you chose to accept the chains that whore Andraste set upon you. Now you will never know true power._

Hadiza startled at the memory, remembering the feeling of claws lightly scraping at what she was absolutely certain was the inside of her skull. She felt her chest grow tight, could feel her pulse beating a war-drum rhythm in her ears as her blood rushed in the pipes of her veins. Her hands scrambled to clutch at something as her breathing struggled into her lungs, which felt too small to sustain her.

Her hearing dulled, and the world around her sounded muted as all was reduced to the panicked cadence of her pulse, the waterfall roar of her blood, and the short gasps of breath she took. In her vision, Corypheus’ snarling face swam, cruel and distant as the stars, laughing at her amateur attempt to scry for him.

_I would applaud your ambition, Pretender, if it amounted to anything more than an extension of your foolish stumbling. Perhaps when I take this blighted world, I shall baptize the altar of my sanctum in your blood._

Hadiza’s nails bit into her palms of her left hand, while she fisted the duvet of her bed with the other.

“Hadiza?” The voice was muffled but only when a hand grabbed her arm did she nearly leap out of her skin and everything came rushing back into focus. She shuddered, drawing in deep breaths, eyes wide, and a sheen of sweat on her brow. Samson was looking down at her, his face wrought with a mixture of concern and wide-eyed surprise. Hadiza struggled to calm herself and collect her thoughts.

“Samson, I…” She began but then sought a better greeting, “How much time has passed?”

Not much better, but somewhat.

Samson sat beside her with a grunt as his back protested, and automatically his arm went around her shoulders, hugging her close.

“Enough that I’m no longer shoveling shit out of the stalls,” he offered, “but the dinner bell sounded not too long ago. That is…if you’re interested in eating or something.”

Hadiza managed a weak smile at his attempt at a joke. He knew better than most how her appetite for food was as prodigious and plentiful as her appetite for sex. She leaned her head against his shoulder, catching a faint whiff of the lye soap he used. She sighed.

“Can we eat in here?” She asked, “I’m not interested in fielding conversation from the curious.” Samson turned his head, leaning to brush his lips lightly against her brow.

“Last I checked, you were in charge, princess, unless something happened in the war room?” He grinned when she pinched his side, and grinned harder when he tickled hers, making her jerk in surprise.

“No, I just…I’m tired.” She replied with a sigh. Samson’s brow furrowed, mildly concerned, but he said nothing at the moment. He’d do his duty and send someone to fetch her dinner to her chambers, but it was clear she was worn down.

            Later, over dinner, Hadiza barely touched her food. Samson watched her, worrying. Hadiza’s appetite was legendary to him and to see her disenchanted with food—especially sweets—was disconcerting.

            “Are you going to tell me what happened earlier?” Samson finally asked her when he tired of her indecision. Hadiza blinked, dropping her fork. The clatter was unusually loud and Samson swore he saw the flicker of her magic in an attempt to construct a shield.

            “Nothing.” She said simply, “I just…”

            “You were remembering something you’d rather forget.” Samson finished, narrowing his eyes. He knew the look, the listlessness that followed, and the hesitation to confront it or bury it. He’d seen the look in the Commander’s eyes when he first came to Kirkwall, had heard it in the grinding of the man’s teeth in the night’s depths, the unintelligible muttering as Cullen talked in his sleep. Samson knew it because he’d seen it in the faces of the mages he helped smuggle out of Kirkwall, who would think to look back but at the last minute, turn their backs on the city that held more pain for them than they could ever convey with words.

            “You don’t have to tell me the details,” he heard himself saying, an echo of the words he once told mages back in Kirkwall, “but you know I’m right here when you’re ready.” Hadiza met his eyes, saying nothing, but her smile was gentle and a bit melancholy. Samson gave her a crooked half-smile in return. He took her hand over the table, and their fingers interlaced. It was in private, so he felt comfortable enough to do such a thing. The silence pervaded a moment longer before Hadiza smiled.

            “There are no details to give, at present,” she murmured, “and it is not something that can simply be talked away. I suppose what I need is time.” Samson nodded. Then time she would have. He understood the importance of that, now that he actually had it himself. Hadiza finally started eating, and Samson breathed a sigh of relief.

            Later, she slept, but Samson lay awake, idly toying with her hair. Her words still troubled him.

            Time.

            How much did he have left?

            He glanced down at her, gently removing his arm from under her head and rolling the cramp out of his shoulder as he turned on his side, drawing her closer to him. How much time did he have before the red’s damage finally took its toll? How much had Hadiza’s skill as a healer undone? He had no way of knowing, truly, and even Dagna’s curiosity and expertise had failed to find the answers he sought.

            He thought of Maddox, felt something in his heart twinge, and shied away. He wasn’t ready to unpack that yet. Cullen had delivered the blow of Maddox’s death with all the of the grace and tact of a battering ram, caring precious little for the only person Samson had given a shit about in truth. Maddox deserved better than to be used as some needling guilt trip, least of all by a man whose own sins seemed to be forgiven without question.

            “Mmm,” Hadiza murmured, adjusting, “Samson, go to sleep.” He smiled and leaned over to brush his lips against her ear.

            “You’re dreaming, princess.” He told her and received a nudge of her bottom to his groin for the comment, making him grin.

            “You’re thinking too loud, love,” she mumbled, “go to sleep.” Her hand sought his own blindly, and their fingers interlaced. Samson buried his face in her hair, trying to will away the encroachment of his introspection. She was right, his thoughts were too loud and he’d gain nothing chasing them this night.

            Eventually, he did sleep, lulled to it by her deep breathing, her lovely scent, and the knowledge that even if time was short, he had moments like this.

            The night deepened, and for a while it was quiet, the two of them intertwined, and Samson drifting in dreamless slumber.

            Until Hadiza started to burn.


	3. Burning Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hadiza needs her fucking eyes checked.

            Being magic-resistant had its perks, and being a templar for most of his life had honed his skills to an edge so fine it could split the very air. He had been trained to smother magic, to neutralize mages that had gone out of control, and if need be, to cut them down. He avoided the latter at all costs if he could, but used the former methods always keeping the safety of the mage in mind.

            So when Hadiza caught fire, Samson was pulled from sleep and from the bed and immediately brought down a smothering silence on the entire bed. Hadiza awoke, gasping, her mana drained, and the bed smoking.

            “Samson!” She cried, scrambling out of bed, wild-eyed and confused and he caught her up in his arms before she fell and she glanced back to the smoking bed, the sheets tattered and blackened where the preternatural flames had licked at them. He cared little for the bed, and checked to make sure neither himself nor Hadiza had been injured.

            “What the hell just happened?” He demanded. Hadiza struggled to catch her breath, trying to remember.

            “I was…I was having a nightmare, I think.” She glanced again to the smoldering bed and then to Samson who was still searching her body for injuries.

            “When I found you up here,” he said, “you were frozen and looked like someone had punched you in the heart, and you were sweating. Hadiza, you gotta talk to me. If this happens again, I might not be up in time to stop it.”

            “I know!” She cried, pulling away from him, turning away, “I know…I can’t tell you because it’s hard to put into words. You _worked_ for him, Samson.”

            He froze. So it was that, then.

            “You’re still angry with me.” He said, trying to keep the accusatory tone out of his voice. Hadiza turned to face him, wide-eyed.

            “No! Not that. It’s just…you worked for him, I don’t expect you to understand what it’s like to be on the receiving end of his…disdain.” Her voice quieted. Samson relaxed, but the acrid smell of burnt fabric stung his nose. He sniffed, rubbing it with the back of his hand.

            “I wasn’t, no,” he agreed, “doesn’t mean I won’t listen and try to understand. This got something to do with that night you went poking around for him?” Hadiza nodded silently. Samson sighed. He’d suspected that night would come back to haunt them, he just wasn’t sure when. He wondered how many other loose ends were waiting to tangle them up.

            “Wanna tell me what happened that’s got you so shaken a year later?” He asked her. Hadiza hesitated.

            “He made me…” Samson braced himself. He knew Corypheus was capable of unspeakable evil in the sense that his retaliation was swift and decisive, and extremely ruthless. But he was not… _depraved_.

            “He made me doubt myself. A lot.” Hadiza said softly, “He told me things while we were trapped in that in-between place. Things I wanted to know, things I wish I didn’t. Told me that had I not been so foolish as to oppose him, I might have had a place in his new world. Then he told me the only place I would have would be to be dead at his feet.” Samson was quiet. Those sounded like Corypheus’ words, alright. He hadn’t even thought to ask Hadiza what had happened when the magister had momentarily gained control of her body. That had been terrifying for him, mostly because he could have lost her, but it had to have been outright damaging for her.

            “You said you’d seen someone attempt a scrying before,” Hadiza murmured, “what happened to the ones who sought Corypheus?” Samson tensed, took a deep breath, and then let out a quiet sigh.

            “It’s best if you don’t know, love. Corypheus did not deal leniently with those who sought to stop him. He was singularly determined in his goals. The rest of us were just…”

            “…dust.” Hadiza finished softly. Samson smiled humorlessly and nodded.

            “I suppose, to someone who once tasted godhood that the rest of us couldn’t be anything else. And I know what happened on that mountaintop during the battle. I saw you slipping away from me when you closed the Breach.” Hadiza quickly looked away, her face burning with shame.

            “It was like glimpsing a dozen different futures at once,” she explained quickly, “I saw myself in his place. I took the Black City and ruled from there. I thought maybe…maybe if someone good sat on that throne that they could fix Thedas properly. I…thought if I ruled from the Fade instead of him, I could bring balance back to the world.” Samson watched her a moment. He should have reacted with alacrity, should have told her to silence that ambition, that her thoughts were blasphemy against the Chantry. Instead, he smiled. Like Corypheus—or any mage that knew their own power and strength—Hadiza was ambitious and seemingly noble in her goals. The only difference was that Hadiza feared what she would become.

            Corypheus had already become what the Chantry feared all mages strove toward.

            “A lofty goal,” Samson conceded, “but I don’t think that kind of power was meant for any of us. Even Corypheus couldn’t handle it, in the end.” Hadiza nodded. The starlight was beginning to fade as dawn paled along the horizon. Wordlessly, Samson pulled her closer and she rested her head on his chest, shutting her eyes and breathing him in.

            “I guess you need to replace your bed,” he murmured into her hair, a smile bleeding into his voice. Hadiza made a small noise.

            “I had it imported from Orlais,” she whined, “the only thing Orlais ever does right is décor and fashion. The sheets were Rivaini silk.”

            “Maybe Dagna can fireproof your bedchamber.” Samson teased and hissed when she pinched his belly.

            “If you hadn’t been here I don’t know what might have happened.” She murmured. Samson snorted.

            “Oh I imagine things being lit on fire can only go one way, princess.” He chuckled, trying to avoid her pinch again. Samson’s fingers tangled in her hair, massaging her scalp, making her melt. He knew how to soften the woman when her claws came out; although there were times even he had to steer clear of her temper.

            “So what do we tell them if they ask what happened?” She wondered as she sat on one of her couches. Samson opted to lie on the couch, stretching his legs across her lap. Hadiza didn’t even flinch, her hands absently massaging his calves, making him grunt. Samson tossed his arm over his eyes.

            “Tell ‘em we fucked so hard you burst into flames. Shit.” he muttered, “Does it matter? You need a new bed; you’re the fuckin’ Inquisitor, and they don’t get to question your requests. Mmm…don’t stop doin’ that.”

            Hadiza glanced at him, smiling. He had a point. She owed no one an explanation but she also disliked imagining the rumors it would start. She massaged his legs until she heard his light snore, and then carefully maneuvered until she could stretch on top of him. He grunted, but then put an arm around her and they slept through sunrise.

            Josephine found them some time after the breakfast bell and gasped when she saw the state of the bed and found the two of them tangled on the couch, fast asleep. A head of dark hair lifted, and bleary silver eyes blinked slowly and uncomprehendingly at the ambassador.

            “Inquisitor,” Josephine said with amused primness, “I don’t suppose you’d mind coming by my office this afternoon? We’ve received some requests for a meeting from the royal family of Nevarra.”

            Hadiza made an unintelligible groaning noise, bobbed her head once in a semblance of a nod, and then lowered her head back on Samson’s chest.

            “Very well, Inquisitor,” Josephine glanced at the bed again, “and shall I put in a request for a new bed?” This time, Hadiza lazily lifted her hand and waved it about. Josephine understood and grinned.

            “As you will. I shall have breakfast sent to your chambers. I shall see you anon.” She grinned, “Try not to languish too long in here. Lady Aja and Blackwall are looking for your templar.”

            “Tell ‘em to fuck off for today,” Samson growled from the couch. Josephine’s hand went to her mouth to stifle her laughter, but she said nothing else, leaving the room quietly and unobtrusively. As she promised, she did have breakfast sent up to them, and by that time, the two had roused enough to make more than unintelligible moaning noises. In fact, they’d roused enough that Samson had gotten his hands beneath Hadiza’s nightgown. Hadiza straddled his lap on the couch, giggling as they kissed, and he pulled the nightgown down over her breasts to mouth the nipples, making her moan.

            That was when the knock sounded.

            “Oh for fuck’s sake…” Samson growled as he watched Hadiza pull herself together and slide from his lap.

            “Come in,” she laughed, and heard the rattling of the breakfast tray as a runner brought it in on a cart.

            “Your Worship!” He said with a salute and Hadiza waved him off with a smile.

            “None of that, Destin,” she addressed the lad by name, “just Inquisitor, now.”

            “Aye, Your—um…Inquisitor.” He sketched a cursory glance at Samson who bared his teeth in a fearsome grin. The man practically scurried out of the bedchamber, leaving Hadiza and Samson alone with breakfast. They picked over the food while they prepared to start their late day, with Hadiza making sure all reports were looked over and filed away properly, half-dressed in her armor, and Samson giving himself a quick wash in her basin, looking over his face in the mirror. He shaved, of course, but that did nothing to obscure the permanent shadow of stubble. Hadiza’s arms came around him from behind, a pastry trapped between her teeth, no doubt drizzled with honey, as she loved.

            “Get dressed, you,” Samson growled at her, but then turned, biting the pastry and brushing her lips as he did. The two of them laughed silently, and she walked away, her breeches still unlaced, her boots unbuckled, looking a mess.

            Once they were both ready, however, they set out with renewed vigor.

 

* * *

 

            Hadiza passed into the war room, and her advisors, Cullen, Josephine, and more recently, Ariadne, who took on Leliana’s role, waited for her. Hadiza’s hair was bound at her nape, but a few loose curls and waves still managed to escape, and she caught Ariadne’s subtle gesture that one of the buttons on her collar was undone. Hadiza deftly fixed it and cleared her throat.

            “Alright, then,” she began, “what’s on the menu for today?”

            Cullen began first, indicating the map.

            “We’ve been busy in the last year, as you well know, Inquisitor,” he told her, “and the civil war in Orlais has been resolved and most of their efforts now turn to Emprise du Lion to aid in the rebuilding there. I’ve sent men back into the Arbor Wilds to salvage what they could and destroy any remaining red lyrium growths in the area.”

            “I’ve also contacted the local nobility in the area to aid in the relief,” Josephine picked up, “I’ve arranged to have them pay the Inquisition to keep our people on retainer to augment their own personal forces. And we received a missive from Queen Anora this morning regarding relief in the Storm Coast. Your Blades of Hasserian have been unfailingly loyal and dedicated in defending the area.” Hadiza nodded. She expected as much. Most who bound up their honor in trials of combat could be expected to keep their word. The Blades of Hasserian may have been crazy and borderline fanatical in their beliefs, but they were damn useful.

            “My people stumbled across some strange ruins near the Wilds,” Ariadne said slowly, her voice like cool water. Hadiza was still getting used to two things: that Ariadne was her half-sister and the daughter of the former knight-commander of Ostwick’s Circle, and that Leliana had been secretly grooming her to replace her in the Inquisition on the off-chance she became Divine…which she did. Till this day, Hadiza was uncertain if Leliana had subtly manipulated her into aiding in this decision or if she had chosen Leliana based on her own beliefs.

            Still, Ariadne was just as good a spymaster as Leliana, but twice as cold if that were possible.

            “Let me guess,” Hadiza said with a wry smile, “you want me to take a team to investigate because your people won’t go near it.” Ariadne’s brows rose.

            “Hardly,” she countered, “they’ve gone near it but it seems there are old magics there and may require a mage’s touch. We’ve learned of rumors of a legendary blade in the Cradle of Sulevin. Even with Corypheus gone, his allies as yet remain.”

            Hadiza blew out a breath, sighing and pinching the bridge of her nose. It seemed she’d be scouring yet another ruin with untold dangers for Maker knew the fuck what. She waved her hand dismissively.

            “Very well, I shall investigate it. Mark the location on my map and I’ll set out with my team post-haste.” Hadiza watched as Ariadne took the oilskin and unrolled it. She quickly marked the location and rolled the map back up, placing it back into the oilskin and the leather casing. It was also marked on the larger map on the war table.

            “Is there aught else?” Hadiza asked, “Or am I to be pinioned by curious nobility the rest of the afternoon?” She smiled indulgently at Josephine who gave her a slight and helpless shrug. Cullen shook his head. Ariadne made a subtle gesture of shifting her weight from the balls of her feet to her heels, the only visible cue that she was relaxed and awaiting orders.

            “Very well, then,” Hadiza said at last, “then we are adjourned for the day. Dismissed.” She turned and made ready to leave as her advisors filed out of the room. Hadiza hazarded a glance at the window above where she could make out the sickly green glow of the sky-scar the Breach had left. The scar had become a subject of fascination and study for many who delved into the arcane arts. With the Circles disbanded in the wake of Leliana’s ascent to the Sunburst Throne, the result was the College of Enchanters, where mages studied the arcane freely.

            Hadiza wondered what might have become of her had this option been available during her youth. The Circles had served to stifle many a young mage, and at worst, kill them and their passion for their gifts. As she stared out of the window, she felt the surging bite of the Anchor flaring to life in response to her rising emotions.

            The whispers came with it.

            _Your bitterness is sweet. Shall you now resent all the future mages who will have the life you never could? You are shackled to this place, Inquisitor, shackled to a dying age. You will pass into memory, a relic of a bygone era._

            Hadiza’s marked hand clenched into a fist until her nails bit into the leather of her fingerless gloves.

            There was a crackle as a spider web crack appeared in one of the little panes of the large arched window.

            “I’m not a fucking relic,” she growled under her breath, “and if future mages could have the chance I never got, then all the better.”

            _You don’t actually believe that, do you?_

“Shut up!” Hadiza cried and the spider web crack spread and then the glass shattered.

            “Hadiza!” It was Cullen who pulled her out of the reverie and Hadiza gasped, blinking. She glanced back up at the window. The glass was whole.

            Then what…?

            “I…” She spoke but words failed her. Ariadne, Cullen, and Josephine stood at their respective places on the other side of the war table, staring at her in open concern and curiosity.

            “I’m sorry,” Hadiza said, “where were we?”

            “You asked if there was aught else.” Ariadne said slowly, “And now we are adjourned. Are you alright?”

            Hadiza blinked again, staring up at the window. Ariadne’s gaze followed her own, clearly curious. She hazarded a questioning glance back at Hadiza, brows raised in obvious concern.

            “I’m fine.” Hadiza said firmly, “Just didn’t get a good night’s rest is all. Josephine, you said something about Nevarra?”

            Josephine hesitated but graciously stepped forward.

            “Yes. When you are ready, we can discuss receiving their diplomats within the next few weeks.” She said and Hadiza nodded.

            “That’s fine,” she conceded, “let’s adjourn for now. We’ll reconvene if anything comes up, as usual. I’ve an expedition to plan and royals to entertain it looks like.” Cullen’s face was somewhat hard, but softened when he looked at her.

            “Are you sure you’re alright, Inquisitor? You look…”

            “…tired?” Hadiza laughed, “I am, believe me. I’ll sleep when the day is done, don’t worry.”

            And with that, the meeting was dismissed just in time for the lunch bell. Hadiza left, pointedly avoiding Cullen’s concerned glance as she stalked off to find Samson.

* * *

 

            Samson, for his part, was paying the price for his rather rude message to Aja and Blackwall that morning. The air rushed out of his lungs in a sharp and pained exhale as Aja took him down into the dirt rather hard.

            “Fuck off, eh?” She snarled as Samson shoved her off and rolled to his feet, sword drawn. His shield had been knocked clear. Aja was fighting with a single longsword

            “Aye,” Samson snarled back, “fuck. Off.” He moved with brutal precision, and a speed that was at once a result of the lyrium and his own natural build. He knew personally that he was much slower than he had been in his youth, but not that much slower. Aja had her work cut out for her.

            “Cut the chatter, you two,” Blackwall admonished from the sidelines. He wasn’t as cross with Samson as Aja was, but his voice was a little more scathing than usual. Samson grinned. All he’d asked for was one morning to sleep in with his lady and suddenly everyone’s knickers were in a knot.

            Aja and Samson fought, alternating between blocks, parries, and prodding for openings. During this time, Hadiza found her way next to Blackwall, watching the spar unfold. Aja managed to get ahold of Samson again and slam him into the dirt. This time, he didn’t get up, sighing.

            “This one’s yours,” he growled out, catching sight of Hadiza’s booted feet from his rather unfavorable vantage point on the ground. Aja shoved him once and got up. Slowly, Samson climbed to his feet, wiping the sweat from his brow. Blackwall looked unimpressed.

            “If you’d been here this morning you might have learned how to avoid that move,” he chided, then muttered, “telling us to fuck off. The nerve.” Hadiza bit her lip to hide her grin as Samson came up to her. She watched Aja and Blackwall go, watched Aja murmur something to the man, saw his shoulders shake with laughter, and then turned her gaze back to Samson.

            “Hungry?” She asked him and Samson grinned. Before he could say his ribald joke that wasn’t truly a joke, Hadiza cut him off, “Actual food this time.”

            “You _are_ actual food, I thought,” Samson said thoughtfully, looking wistfully into the distance, “a man can live off of the nourishment you provide.”

            Hadiza’s face was on fire and she shook her head. The two of them left the practice field and it became evident that she was sitting on news from the agitated way she picked over her food during lunch.

            “We’re going on an expedition in the next week or so,” she explained to him and Samson kept eating; he was used to her expeditions by now that her springing one on him like this had been readily welcome after the lull in activity the past few weeks.

            “You don’t say,” he replied, “where are we headed?” Hadiza hesitated, and then finally settled down enough to eat something.

            “Cradle of Sulevin, just outside the Arbor Wilds.” She said simply,  “Ariadne’s people found some ruins there and have been poking around but they need a powerful mage to activate the good stuff.” Samson chuckled to himself, scraping his plate clean before washing down the remnants with wine.

            “And you need your templar in case things go tits-up, eh?” He asked her. Hadiza pursed her lips.

            “No,” she said, “I _want_ him there with me. That is, if he hasn’t any pressing matters to attend to.” She peered at him over the rim of her wine goblet, silver eyes twinkling. Samson watched her, kept his eyes on her mouth, now wet with wine, probably tasting of sharp spices from her ancestral homeland of Rivain. He tilted his head.

            “I suppose he’ll have no choice but to make sure you stay out of trouble,” he said after a lengthy silence, “but knowing you, you’re as like to cause it as you are to step into the shit.” Hadiza stuck out her tongue at him briefly and he laughed.

            “Watch it, girl,” he warned, “I can think of plenty of uses for that insolent mouth of yours, and a hundred more for your tongue. Tell me more about this expedition.” Hadiza grinned and as per her habit, reached for one of the sticky desserts on his plate. Samson couldn’t figure out why he bothered with the damn things, as he didn’t have a penchant for sweets, but Hadiza could live off sweets if he let her—which he didn’t. It was just as well; she hated fish and egg pie and wrinkled her nose every time he ate it.

            “Well,” she began, “there’s a rumor about a magical sword…”

            “Fuckin’ typical.” Samson grumbled and she laughed.

            “As I said: rumor about a magical sword, supposedly forged by the elves. It was broken into three pieces, I believe, and left in the Cradle. It’s guarded by powerful magic which is why they want me to investigate.” Samson watched her lick her fingers of the sticky sweetness, and tried to focus on something other than her mouth’s lovely shape.

            Hadiza reached for her goblet, nursing the remaining dregs of her wine as she explained the expedition’s nature to him. They were to explore only, and if deigned safe enough to do so, activate the veilfire torches mounted around the ruins to reveal any secrets, and hopefully the blade itself.

            “Any idea what we can expect by way of guardian magic?” Samson asked her. Hadiza peered into her goblet, looking at the dark ripple of her reflection. She opened her mouth to answer and then her reflection briefly shifted and she saw Corypheus’ face sneering at her.

            Her gasp covered the sound of the goblet slipping from her lax fingers onto the table where it tipped over and spilled wine all over the wood, dripping onto her lap. She pushed away from the table suddenly, her hands trembling. She blinked several times, mouthing words to herself. Samson’s brows furrowed.

            “You alright, girl?” He demanded, “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.” Hadiza glanced up at him sharply, her expression torn between fear and anger.

            “I…” She breathed, “I might have.” She reached for one of the elegant cloth napkins on the table and patted the table dry, then wiped the wetness from her lap. It was a good thing her armor and leathers were dark. She took a deep breath and met Samson’s gaze.

            Without a word, he stood, and they left the main hall, stepping through one of the side doors to climb up to her personal chambers.

            Hadiza flinched every time they passed a reflective surface.

 

 

Art by me.


	4. The Long Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes (and Samson) set out on a new adventure for the Inquisition. Things happen, everyone thinks about their own failings as mere mortals, and possibly NSFW because Hadiza and Samson can't seem to keep their hands off one another.

Over the course of the year, seeing them together felt less like a carving knife to his heart and more like a string around it. He watched them laugh, watched them fight, argue, play. He saw the change in Hadiza that he knew would not have been possible with himself. When she playfully chased Samson with innocuous magic after he’d teased her mercilessly on the practice field, or when he caught her up in his arms, holding her over his shoulder while she shrieked with laughter, he realized something in Hadiza had been freed, something Cullen realized he had been trying to keep under lock and key out of his own fear.

In Samson he saw the man that he’d met in Kirkwall over a decade prior, but there was something different about him too. Time had weathered Samson, had used him harshly, but the man had survived against all odds, and even his crimes could be forgiven in the face of his sincere atonement. He was quick to smile, and Cullen saw in Samson a tenderness he reserved for Hadiza when they were together. He saw a fierce determination and loyalty when he trained alongside the men, and saw him undaunted in the face of ridicule and outright hatred of those who would never forgive him.

So much blood on the man’s hands, and yet...had Cullen not also been guilty of the same in his negligence? He watched Samson closely, wondering--perhaps hoping--that the torrid dalliances between himself and Hadiza would run its course, but it showed no signs of slowing...only growing. Cullen watched Samson, recalling every exchange between himself and the former general, and he realized that in the past year that he too had changed.

Looking at Hadiza no longer hurt, and he found himself more comfortable being her friend and advisor than he ever did as her lover. Slowly, the cold wasteland between them thawed and the first shoots of new growth began to show. It began with her smile, which he echoed—reluctantly at first—and then eventually the war room felt less chilly and more like it once did before Samson came between them. And eventually, they spoke again, about the Inquisition, about the day-to-day humdrum, and bit-by-bit the tension eased.

Eventually, he worked up the nerve to ask to speak with her after meetings.

Hadiza was wary at first, thinking to receive a berating or scathing comment regarding her relationship with Samson. Cullen understood and realized how unworthy he’d acted toward her in regards to her decision. He sought to amend that, now.

“I suppose I should begin by apologizing to how I’ve treated you this past year.” He said and she blinked.

“I hurt you deeply, Cullen,” she replied, “you had a right to your anger with me. But I accept your apology nonetheless.” She smiled at him, gentle and reassuring…forgiving him. Cullen didn’t know why, but he felt compelled to tell her everything. Hadiza had a way with people in that regard. They came to her with their problems, their burdens, their ghosts and demons, and she exorcized them with all the finesse and gentleness as if she were born to do it.

“I do not think you should accept it just yet,” Cullen said gently and her brow knit, perplexed, “I was never truly forthright with you when…before…”

“Is this about Kirkwall?” She asked him and Cullen nearly sputtered in surprise. Hadiza’s smile grew wan and humorless.

“Ariadne is a very proficient gatherer of information,” she assured him, “I decided it was worth looking into when I sent her to fetch Samson’s shield. Your past is your own, Cullen, and I’m not going to hold it against you. We had what we had, but until you own your shit, nothing good would have come of it.”

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck, equal parts relieved and equal parts alarmed. Hadiza sighed.

“Look, we have to work together for an indeterminate amount of time. I’m not going to waste time and energy being angry with you. You’re my military advisor and you command the most powerful standing army in Southern Thedas at present. It does us little good to have this bad blood between us.”

“You’re right,” Cullen agreed, “I just…I didn’t realize how uncompromising and awful I was to you until I saw you with…with him.” Hadiza’s brows went up, clearly nonplussed. Cullen’s cheeks went warm and pink, and he looked away from her.

“Does he treat you well?” He ventured. Hadiza smiled and there was warmth in it that Cullen once basked in. He had to put that behind him somehow. That tenderness was no longer his.

“Yes,” she said, her voice soft and affectionate, “he does. He makes me very happy, and despite what grudges you bear, Samson is a good man at heart. Perhaps if you…kept an open mind, you might see that.” Cullen tried not to make a noise of disgust for her sake and turned away from her briefly, trying to focus on anything but the way she looked when she spoke of the man who defiled the Order.

“Did you see that in him when we brought him to his knees a year ago? Did you foresee all of…this?” He asked her. Hadiza laughed, amused and airy.

“Goodness, no, Cullen,” she said, “if I foresaw anything it was that Samson could and likely would atone. I believe, in his own way, he loved the Order and the Chantry, and he truly believed in it…but they broke his heart, Cullen. They took from him everything that ever mattered: his dignity, his friends, and his ideals. I do not fault him his desperation. Did I foresee…the two of us? Never. But I do think hearts a joined for a purpose.” Cullen regarded her a moment, tried to read the archaic text that he once thought he knew so well, and he found, much to his surprise and chagrin, that he could not.

Hadiza had changed, and the unseen things that comprised her nature were no longer familiar to him. The curve of her smile, yes, that had never changed, but there was a weight in her eyes, a tempered steel that had not been there a year prior. Cullen realized in that moment that Samson had been right: Hadiza Trevelyan belonged to no one, least of all to him.

But it did not do much to lessen the hurt that the woman he once loved—and likely would always love in some capacity—was still bound up in his heartstrings, and he was cut loose from hers.

“What will you do when the word gets out?” He asked her. Hadiza gave an elegant shrug of her shoulders, turning toward the war room door, making ready to leave.

“I will stand by his side, and he by mine, Cullen,” she said simply, “come what may.”

As she left, Cullen thought to himself that he did not know Hadiza as well as he once thought he did.

 

* * *

 

 

The mirror was cracked, and only she could see it.

It was not a very visible crack, per se, no more than a hairline fracture, but as she peered at her reflection the crack seemed to become a fissure. Hadiza rubbed her face, studying it and how it had changed since first they christened her the Inquisitor. She was still youthful, courtesy of her Rivaini genes. Her skin retained the suppleness that gave her that sun-kissed glow, rich and dark like burnished mahogany. Her eyes were tilted at the corners, giving her a whimsical and cat-like appearance, a preternatural silver-gray that was made even more startling when set within her dark face. There were lines in the corners when she smiled, and slight shadows beneath her eyes. Then her nose, a soft round shape, elegantly sculpted, and a wide, full mouth. Hadiza studied her reflection, grateful that it was her face that stared back.

The hairline fracture in the mirror began to glow.

“Stop it.” She whispered, reaching to try and cover it up with her hands, “Please stop.” The glow subsided, but Hadiza felt rather than heard an echo of laughter, deep and pervasive, as if it were coming from the bottom of a well. She glanced sharply over her shoulder with a gasp.

Samson’s laughter could be heard downstairs, her chamber door shutting behind him. She heard the creak of leather and armor as he ascended the steps, tried her best to look bright and welcoming as she saw him. Tried not to look as if she were slowly going mad from being haunted by an eidolon she had buried in too shallow a grave. She saw shadows moving along the floor in the midst of the sunset; a pair of hands reaching for her from that shallow grave, reaching to pull her into the hungry earth.

 _No_. She thought to herself, moving slowly out of the reach of those phantom claws that grasped for her. Samson didn’t seem to see it, and instead caught her up in his arms, lifting her, kissing her, burning away the fear and doubt of her mind momentarily as she gladly lost herself in him.

“I’ve not seen you all day, princess,” he told her, settling her on her feet, “you’re looking at me like I’ve fish on my breath…” Hadiza laughed despite herself.

“No, it’s just…I’m completely swamped planning this expedition. Not to mention the preparations to receive the Nevarran delegation are still underway. Josephine wants the entire main hall scrubbed and is talking about me mounting the heads of the dragons I’ve slain on the walls…”

Samson grinned.

“They are known for dragon hunting over there, I thought. Great way to show off how lethal you are. Josephine knows what she’s about.” Hadiza was already picking at the straps and buckles of his armor, helping him undress piece by piece. She took comfort in his groans of relief as each piece of plate was stripped away and placed on the armor stand. He all but lived in her quarters, now, despite being given his own room. None in Skyhold pretended ignorance that Samson shared the Inquisitor’s bed every night, and while he had proven himself her protector and lover, beyond Skyhold’s walls and in the world at large, his head was still more valuable on a pike than anything.

Samson always did love sticking it to authority, and to flaunt his immunity to Orlesian fops and fuckheads was cathartic. He’d already answered for his crimes in the last year, breaking his back to help rebuild, avoiding assassination attempts from several unknown parties, and enduring the hatred and vitriol of a rightfully outraged people. He paid his dues as demanded, and found absolution in the blood and sweat he’d shed for his redemption. And while he still clung to the belief that the Chantry was full of shit, he found absolution of a different kind with the Inquisitor herself. Hadiza had given him the power to take back what the Chantry had snatched from him. She could not bring back Maddox, and that was a loss he still mourned a year gone-by, but she had given him back what even Corypheus could not: a fucking chance to truly redeem himself both as a templar and as a man. And he wouldn’t have to die fighting just to prove a point.

He sat as Hadiza knelt before him, helping him to tug off his boots. She was becoming rather adept at dressing and undressing him, he realized. He was still trying to figure out the myriad of hooks and stays on her gowns. He’d already torn a few in his haste, much to Hadiza’s outright fury, and he’d pestered Josephine to no end to see them all mended. He much preferred her simple mage robes, anyhow; a simple tug on the sash and she was all his. He sat before her and she stayed on her knees, her hands resting gently on his thighs. He admitted, the sight of her like that stirred his blood to liquid fire something fierce. There was something powerfully erotic about having the most powerful woman in Southern Thedas in a position of supplication, and yet the way she looked at him was not the look of one brought to heel at all. She retained all of that power, composure, and authority in the curve of her small smirk.

“Princess…” His voice was rough with desire, a low and growling note she drew out of him with a look. Hadiza’s fingers ghosted upward along his thighs, across his belly and down to deftly tug at the laces of his breeches. Samson watched her, heat gathering in the intensity of his gaze, suddenly hyperaware of the fullness of her mouth. It was inevitable, he knew. She’d either tease him until he was beyond saving, or she’d finish him off right then and there. For a moment, he thought he’d die of the surge of desire suddenly pulsing in his blood, but when she freed him, her fingers closing around the hot, hard length of his cock with aching tenderness and familiarity, he exhaled sharply.

“What’d I do to deserve this?” He asked her as she lowered her head to descend on him slowly. She didn’t answer him, not for thirty straight minutes, and he ceased to ask, his head falling back, his hands coming to rest on her head as it bobbed along his length, her cheeks working. Who the fuck taught her to do that? It couldn’t have been Cullen. The man blushed around women, and it had taken Samson a considerable amount of time to get him to open up about desire at all.

After a long year sharing her bed, Hadiza had learned what buttons to push to make Samson growl, or to quiet him, or to even get him begging and swearing at her. For now, she seemed content to tease out his orgasm with a slower, more methodical approach. She took in as much of him as she could, and he swallowed hard at the sight of her lips wrapped around him, sliding down to meet her stroking fist. Eventually, he felt his orgasm wash over him, felt the shudder rattle the knots in his spine, and felt his cock twitch heavily in her mouth, pumping his seed down her throat. She swallowed him, sucked him dry, and pulled away slowly.

“Andraste’s flaming tits…” Samson swore quietly, letting out a relieved sigh, “…what’s the fuckin’ occasion?” He ran his hands over his face, looked down at her where she rested her cheek on his knee, looking like a very satisfied feline.

“I don’t know,” she laughed softly, “it just felt right.” She rose with consummate grace, leaning in to kiss the tip of his nose. The shadows no longer moved along the floor, and her mirror lay dormant. And the whispers that plagued her remained blessedly silent. Samson smirked and pulled her into his lap.

“You okay?” He asked her as she buried her face in his neck. She nodded silently. Samson decided not to venture any further. He learned that Hadiza would carry the weight of the world on her shoulders if one let her, but she’d never admit she had a burden if one kept pressing the issue. Thus far, she seemed to be functioning well enough, and she hadn’t lit anything on fire in her sleep for a few days.

“When do we leave for this little adventure you’ve got planned?” He asked her, taking one of her hands in his and massaging the tender muscle between her thumb and forefinger. Her fingers curled loosely as he did.

“We leave in one week,” she mumbled into his neck, “I had Ariadne’s people set up a base camp not far from the ruins…the way is clear for us to enter.” She pressed her lips to his throat, tasting the salt of his sweat, breathing in the scent of sun-warmed leather, hot metal, and _him_. He stank of manual labor but she rather liked it. She found it comforting, and somehow it beat back the growing crowd of whispers and visions swirling in her head.

“Mm,” Samson responded, “and I suppose I should probably load up on lyrium in case shit happens, eh?”

“Don’t overdo it, love,” Hadiza admonished, “I’ll not see your mind burned away for this. If Ariadne’s people encountered nothing out of the ordinary thus far, I doubt we’ve much to worry about.”

“Famous last words.” Samson teased and she nudged him gently in retaliation, “It’s true. People always say that right before shit splatters everywhere. Then you’re standing there with your cock in your hand and your pants around your ankles wondering where you went wrong.”

Hadiza sat up and fixed him with a look that was equal parts amused and equal parts annoyed.

“Speaking from experience, are you?” She demanded and Samson shrugged.

“Just stating facts, princess. Make sure you’re prepared to face down a damned dragon if need be.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, giving her a slight squeeze before he gently eased her from his lap to stand up.

“Now, I’m sure you haven’t bathed today,” he was saying with a smirk that was all wickedness and no pragmatism, “and I certainly haven’t bathed today…”

“Samson, are you trying to seduce me?” Hadiza asked with an incredulous laugh. Samson slapped her bottom.

“No. I have to get you in the bath, first. Then I’ll see if I can get you to fuck me.”

“Samson!”

“What? I didn’t exactly train in seducin’ women’s legs open. You either want it or you don’t.” Samson led her to the bathing chamber, and she was laughing the entire way.

“How can you even think of…I literally _just_ finished you off.” Hadiza chided. Samson gave her a look over his shoulder that clearly said he was thinking all sorts of things.

“That was just a warm-up. And I can tell you’re aching for another go at me.” Hadiza wanted to be scandalized but she found she couldn’t be. Instead, Samson drew them a bath, and for a while, her head was quiet, filled only with the sordid fantasies she planned on entertaining once she was submerged in the deep, marble tub. The fire runes she placed around the tub glowed a deep and magma-like red, keeping the water steaming until she wasn’t sure if Samson was making her sweat or the bath was. Needless to say, she barely entertained an answer, focusing her attentions on letting Samson ‘seduce’ her.

She slept that night, dreamless and content. The bed hadn’t been replaced yet, but the sheets had, and that was good enough for the moment. And Hadiza did so love these moments.

 

* * *

 

 

The week went by quickly, and Hadiza assembled her team: Dorian, Aja, Samson, and Cole. Hadiza didn’t think they would need much lock picking done, but Cole was an unobtrusive as mist in the grass when he wanted to be and there was no telling when a rogue would come in handy. Dorian was the most well-read mage she had, and a necromancer and one thing Hadiza learned was that everything in Thedas became undead when it was supposed to die. Dorian could serve to lay the undead to true rest if need be.

He also had begged Hadiza to come along, as the lore surrounding the Cradle of Sulevin was also fascinating to him. She indulged him both for his skill and his scholarly desires. With her team assembled, Hadiza had only to make final preparations before they left Skyhold. During that time she was on the fence about one thing.

“Do you _have_ to bring it?” Aja demanded as Hadiza scratched the dracolisk’s spine-riddled neck. It screeched—the closest thing to a pleased croon it could make. Hadiza rubbed the tip of her nose on the dracolisk’s snout. Argo made small shrieking sounds that could be read as affection, bowing his head and nudging her gently.

“Look at him, Aja,” Hadiza said softly, “he’s been cooped up in the stables too long. He needs a good run and a long journey to stretch his legs. Isn’t that right, precious?” Aja rolled her eyes as she watched her sister coo at the hideous draconic beast, and sighed in exasperation as Argo’s spines flexed and it shifted its weight from foot to foot in obvious excitement. How Hadiza managed to tame the thing and get it to respond so positively to her was a mystery, but she adored the ugly creature to bits.

            “That thing eats more than its fair share of meat,” Samson said crossly, “take the Friesian and do us all a great service. We’ll eat better on the road for it.” Hadiza glared at him, and he swore she began petting the dracolisk passive-aggressively.

            “You’re supposed to be on _my_ side.” She hissed and in response Argo’s spines raised in warning. Samson grunted, but kept his distance. He still bore the scars on his shoulder from when the beastie decided it wanted to know what he tasted like.

            “I’m always on your side,” he muttered, “but when it comes to survival…that thing will do us more harm than good for resources.” Hadiza was still frowning but his gaze was steady and insistent. Finally, seeing reason, she sighed, resting her forehead against the side of Argo’s head. Small whistling clicks emanated from the creature.

            “I’m sorry,” she muttered, “you have to stay because _someone_ ,” she glared at Samson and then Aja who each gave her a grin respectively, “was thinking about their stomach. I promise we’ll go on our own trip next time.”

            The dracolisk crooned and licked her face, making her laugh.

            After she’d saddled Nyx, the Friesian that had been a gift from the Commander, she made her final preparations, and when her party was set, mounted, and fully supplied, they set out of Skyhold.

            There was always an insurmountable feeling of anticipation and excitement when she began a new journey. During the days when she was simply the Herald, those journeys had been fraught with anxiety, terror, and nervousness that she would botch the mission and get everyone killed. As her experience grew, so too did her confidence, and Hadiza now set out from Skyhold with a gleam in her eye, and the telltale ache in her heart that only adventurers were familiar with.

            Now, she had her most trusted allies to ride alongside her, all of them experienced and powerful in their own fields, and it bolstered her courage and allowed her to face any and all that crossed her path. For a while, the path remained blessedly empty save for the road markers left by the spymaster’s agents, marking the safe passages from Skyhold into Orlais or Ferelden. They were indistinguishable from the surrounds to the untrained eye, but they knew what to look for and knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that the spymaster’s agents were keeping an argus-eyed watch over their journey.

            Her mind was blissfully quiet, the whispers still hushed, and when she looked around she did not see the ghostly shadows of an enemy she had slain a year gone-by.

            They reached the base of the Frostbacks later that evening and opted to make camp in the mountain range’s shadow. They were a small group, and thus could move quickly, but to travel by nightfall in such a small company was asking for trouble, especially when crossing the wild terrain of the Dales to get to the Imperial Highway.

            Sleep was a fitful, restless thing that night, and they fell into an easy rhythm of ensuring their mounts were watered and fed, that their weapons were ever-ready, and that they worked smoothly and efficiently. They reached the Imperial Highway just past midday the following day, and there was a palpable easing of tension as they turned their mounts westward along paved and well-patrolled roads toward Halamshiral.

            Hadiza had opted to travel under no banner for the simple fact that she did not wish to rouse any enemies that lay in wait. Seeing the Inquisition’s banner parading through Orlais would be enough to get potential foes curious. With the Breach sealed and the ancient magister slain, there was no true reason for the Inquisition to be so damnably busy nosing about. Still, if the Cradle of Sulevin held what they thought it held, it was in her best interest to travel under secrecy.

            “You’ve been quiet since we got on the road, princess,” Samson said to her as they made their way toward Halamshiral, “I think I can even hear your thoughts getting louder.”

            Hadiza gave him an arch look and he simply smiled at her, an invitation for her to talk. She sighed.

            “Just thinking,” she said simply, “about nothing in particular. Just…the future, I suppose. Is that strange?” Samson glanced at her, surprised. A year ago he might not have had an answer, or he might have told her that yes it was strange to be thinking of the future when the world was burning down around them. Now? He was not certain it was strange at all, because he found he had ample time and opportunity to consider the future as well…mainly that he actually had one to consider.

            “And what did the young seer see when she thought about this future?” He asked quietly. Hadiza gave him a thin smile. He often teased her about her Rivaini heritage, but she knew what he meant. It was something she’d entertained in the past; visiting her mother’s homeland, studying the magic there, learning how to become a different kind of mage—the kind the Chantry preached against. Samson was all about anything the Chantry was against. The only line he didn’t seem inclined to cross was dealing with demons and blood magic. In fact, it was the one part of magic he and Cullen agreed was abhorrent.

            “Nothing of note, yet,” she told him, “but I can keep looking.”

            Samson said nothing but he did imagine a litter of fat babies. Oh, he imagined, and the future was unbidden, bright and fervent, like a star to which he could fix the compass of his soul. Fat babies with silver eyes and warm, nut-brown skin. Maybe jet black curls.

            “He and his horse are thinking of—“ Cole began and Samson shouted.

            “Not one fuckin’ word, boy. My thoughts ain’t up for discussion.” At that, Dorian laughed.

            “Aren’t they? I’m curious as to what you and the horse were thinking at the same time, Samson. Similar tastes, perhaps?” Samson grumbled under his breath about Tevinter needing to fuck off and Hadiza bit her lip to hide her grin.

            It was in the midst of this easy camaraderie that the group of bandits found them.


	5. Herald of Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hate writer's block, honestly.

            They encroached upon the small party like ghosts. No one heard them, and even Aja was caught unawares. On horseback, they had the advantage of being able to flee, but the telltale sound of bows being drawn both fore and aft stymied that hope. They were, in fact, surrounded.

            “You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.” Samson muttered when the ragged bunch of highwaymen gathered. They were outnumbered, he could see, and already he was cutting apart their loose ranks with a general’s eye. They held their weapons like recruits, no certainty in their stances. These were men who had become thieves and brigands by circumstance, not choice. The leader apparent, a wiry man of middling years, stepped forward. He was clad in leather armor, and to call it armor was a stretch. Samson could see that it was a patchwork job, likely scrounged from whatever they salvaged from their raids.

            “Well ain’t this a pretty sight?” He asked, grinning with yellowed and broken teeth. The men were dusty and starved-looking. Hadiza tilted her head.

            “You would dare?” She asked calmly. Samson could never truly grasp how she did that; how she shifted her demeanor from the woman to the Inquisitor with no effort. It was as imperceptible as a subtle poison. You wouldn’t even feel your lungs shredding until you decided to inhale too deeply.

            “I hope they would,” Aja laughed, sucking her teeth, “been far too quiet these last few days.” She shifted in the saddle, looking menacing without the need of a shift in mood. Samson noted then that Cole was nowhere to be found. The boy had a tendency to make himself scarce when a fight seemed imminent; it was a tactic Hadiza employed gleefully. Cole did not like killing unless it was absolutely necessary, but it served to create the illusion of imbalance when in situations like this. Samson liked the subtlety of her mind, but he vastly would have preferred to avoid bloodshed in this situation. These men weren’t coldblooded killers robbing them for sport.

            He hoped Hadiza could see that.

            “See you’ve got quite a fine mount there, milady,” the leader said mockingly, executing a flourishing bow, “I’m sure a pretty little thing like yourself wouldn’t mind me taking such a large and powerful creature off your hands, eh?” Hadiza’s brows furrowed and she took a deep breath. Samson said nothing. She was the Inquisitor, right now, and she was considering her actions carefully. Any blood they spilled would reflect on their reputation.

            “While the offer is tempting,” Hadiza said, a smile slow to bleed onto her face, “allow me to counter your offer with one of my own: leave off this foolish undertaking and instead escort my party to Halamshiral. I shall pay each man in my sights their full weight in gold for the privilege.”

            Samson almost choked back a curse, but he held his composure.

            The bandit leader laughed, head tossed back, full-throated, open-mouthed, and derisive.

            “A fine mount you may have, milady, and an offer as sweet as your face, but I do not believe even you carry that amount of coin.” He said to her. Hadiza gave an elegant shrug of her shoulders.

            “You are correct, of course, I do not carry that sort of coin with me.” She lifted her left hand and the crackle and hiss of the Anchor flashed in brilliant verdant jade before she closed her fist and killed the glow, silencing the mark on her hand.

            “Maker’s sodding breath!” The bandit leader hissed, taking none too few steps back.

            “Inquisitor!” He hissed and none too few ripples of awe washed through the assembled party. Hadiza gave a single dip of her head in apparent greeting to her title. The bandit leader glanced around, and now the atmosphere was charged with nervous energy.

            “We did not expect…” He began, and Samson didn’t bother to hide a sly smile, “We did not expect you to be traveling without an entourage. We just…please accept my humblest apologies, Inquisitor. What do you wish of us?”

            “If the Orlesian civil war has driven you out of your homes and forced you into a deplorable means of survival than my only wish is that you seek employment elsewhere. The Inquisition is always in need of eyes and ears, and even those whose trade does not encompass the sword and the shield.”

            “My lady!” The man gasped, awestruck. Samson’s sly smile turned into one of pride. Hadiza reached into one of the pouches on her belt and withdrew a token stamped with the Inquisition’s insignia. She tossed it and the man caught it in clasped hands, turning it over as it she had just handed him the keys to his freedom.

            “Go to Skyhold,” she told him, “show them that token and tell them that I sent you. Should you be questioned further, tell our spymaster _the nugs are going back underground_. She’ll understand.”

            “My lady…” There were tears in the man’s eyes, “…thank you.” Hadiza’s smile was compassionate.

            “Don’t thank me just yet. Join the Inquisition and reclaim what was lost to you in the war. It will not be easy work, but you will be compensated for your service.”

            Samson wanted to kiss the woman. As they continued on their journey, they left the group of dazed men behind, holding their raggedy weapons and bearing amongst themselves the token that would allow them to win back their simple lives in the Orlesian countryside.

            A day later, they arrived in Halamshiral.

            It was just as well that they stopped in the city, as they needed to resupply before they turned south toward the Arbor Wilds. There was no telling what manner of trouble they’d run into in the Dales, but for now, they would enjoy the comforts of an Orlesian city. Hadiza had them stay in a much humbler inn than she would have had she brought an entourage, and none in her party complained for it, Samson least of all, who had seen all manner of gutter life and finery in his time. He was just glad to be able to stretch his legs, sore from riding for so long.

            They shared a room, of course, and Samson didn’t miss the subtle looks of surprise as those who looked upon him attempted to recognize his face. He knew this was coming; his infamy was now well known beyond the bounds of Skyhold. He did not miss the whispers as he climbed the steps to his room, did not miss the stony silence. They’d hold themselves at bay on account of the Inquisition’s coin paying their wages for the night, and the Inquisitor herself blessing the humble inn with her patronage.

            But he’d be lying if he said that deep down, some part of him still chafed at the idea that a year had done nothing to dull the edge of their disdain. He did not expect to, but it did not lessen the sting.

            He found Hadiza already drawing a bath for herself in the deep, freestanding tub, clad in nothing but what appeared to be one of his shirts. It was too big for her, and hung off her left shoulder, the sleeves having been rolled up to the elbows as she tested the water’s warmth with her hands. For a moment, he was content to watch her, and the chilly atmosphere downstairs was momentarily forgotten.

            “You did right by those men the other day, princess,” he told her as she stood, turning to look at him, “I half-expected you to toss them all into the Fade the way you were flashing that mark at them.” Hadiza bit her lip on a smile.

            “The thought had crossed my mind when he alluded to wanting Nyx,” she replied, “but you saw the look of them, Raleigh. Those men weren’t born to a life like that, nor did they choose it. They deserve better than what their nobility has seen fit to give them in the year gone-by. How many more like them are out there?”

            Samson said nothing, merely watched her with an unreadable expression. Hadiza looked away.

            “I’m sorry. I suppose I sound silly, speaking of such things to you.” She said softly. Samson didn’t smile but he did shrug.

            “I’ve known men like them, Hadiza,” he said after a moment, “and I was a man like that at one point in my life. I never forget where I came from versus where I am, now. You gave those men a better chance to reclaim their lives than the Empress of Orlais herself would ever think to.” Hadiza looked up, smiling sadly.

            “She has far more to look after than I do,” she protested, “I’m not running an empire.”

            “No,” Samson agreed, “you’re not. You’re running the Inquisition, which has taken the responsibility of not just one empire, but also an entire continent. If the Empress of Orlais can’t be bothered to send relief to those whose homes and fields were put to the torch in the name of her war with Gaspard, then what in the Void is she doing? It’s not the nobles who need relief from the war; it’s the ones with common blood in their veins that need tending to. They’re the ones who suffer.”

            Hadiza nodded, but her expression was still troubled.

            “What’s bothering you?” Samson asked. Hadiza met his gaze, watching him come out of his armor deftly and efficiently, laying it out with practiced care, flexing sore and stiff limbs and muscles, and smiling slightly at his relieved sigh of being free of the familiar weight of it all. Hadiza scuffed her barefoot on the rude but polished wood.

            “I don’t think it’s any one particular thing,” she murmured, “just…overthinking.”

            Samson paused in the midst of removing his shirt. Hadiza noticed that the hard corded muscle of his frame was more defined. He’d been taking his training far more seriously with his health being restored, she noticed, more prone to be gone before she roused, and had taken to keeping his skills impeccably honed and focused.

            “Well,” he grunted, tugging his shirt over his head and draping it neatly over the back of one of the chairs in the room alongside his armor, “how about we leave off thinking tonight, hm?” He shot her an arch look and Hadiza covered her face with her hands.

            “Raleigh…” She said, and then let out a shriek of laughter when she was suddenly swept up off her feet and carried to the tub.

            “Into the bath with you, then.” Samson said and Hadiza’s protests were covered up by a loud splash as he dumped her in the tub, shirt and all. She came up sputtering with laughter.

            “Not fair!” She cried, stripping the sopping shirt off and tossing it aside. Samson watched her smooth her hair back, her skin glossy with water as she glared up at him. And then he stripped down to join her. The playfulness settled and she fitted herself between his spread knees, leaning back against his shoulder while he idly stroked the satin skin of her breast.

            “Water’s a bit cool, princess,” he growled, “you mind?” Hadiza’s eyes were shut and she muttered a single word. Samson grimaced against the tingle of the arcane against his skin, but then groan as the water rose to a temperature that instantly made him relax, limbs going slack as steam began to rise in small, viperous spirals around them.

            “Raleigh.” Hadiza murmured. His answering growl was her cue to continue.

            “Did you ever…when you were in Kirkwall…did you ever…you know…with any of the mages?” Samson’s eyes opened wide.

            “What? You mean did I take advantage of any of ‘em? Fuck no, Hadiza. If I wanted pleasure, I sought it at the Rose like any other sensible Knight. I wasn’t going to sit there and take advantage of some poor mage I was charged with protecting.”

            Samson noted that Hadiza’s body relaxed further against him, and then he began to worry.

            “Why? Did something happen in your Circle?” He asked tentatively. Hadiza adjusted slightly, and Samson swallowed hard as she brushed against his half-hard erection.

            “Not to me personally, no,” Hadiza explained and Samson felt relief at the knowledge, “I apprenticed in the healer’s ward for a while and…I saw…things. We also heard about Kirkwall’s Circle. I know you’ve always done right by mages, Raleigh, but I had to know.”

            “I know.” Samson said firmly, “I don’t blame you. You know I wouldn’t ever do anything to you that you didn’t agree to first, right?” One of his arm banded around her, holding her close. Hadiza sighed.

            “I know,” she whispered, “I just wonder…if we’d met any other time…”

            “We met when we were supposed to, princess. Not a moment too soon.” Samson leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple. Hadiza laughed.

            “Do my ears deceive me, or has my valiant knight just admitted to believing in Fate?” She teased. Samson nipped her ear, making her laugh.

            “Fate, maybe,” Samson agreed, “still not sure about the Maker, though.”

            “To be perfectly honest,” Hadiza adjusted again, “neither am I.” _That_ merited a raised brow. Hadiza’s family was known for their devout faith in the Chantry. He’d done some reading on House Trevelyan and two things always came out of that noble house: superb horseflesh and fucking templars. He wasn’t sure where Hadiza’s sister stood on her faith, but to hear Hadiza doubting both made him smile and made him sad. He knew why _he_ doubted the Maker’s existence and the Chantry’s bullshit doctrines, but he could not understand Hadiza’s growing disillusionment.

            “He said he’d seen the throne of the gods and it was empty,” she whispered, her voice fearful and sad, “he said the Black City was filled with corruption and dead whispers. No one was there. Not even demons. Why in Andraste’s name would he ever have wanted to rule that place?”

            Samson was quiet. During his service to Corypheus, he’d never really spoken to the darkspawn magister. It was not something one simply did, making idle conversation with an ancient darkspawn. What little he had gleaned in his service was mostly nonverbal communication.

Standing next to Corypheus was akin to standing next to a storm encased in a body. There was an untapped rage there, and a fearsome determination and strength of will. He did not presume to understand Corypheus’ true motivations, and from what Hadiza had explained of the future she’d lived in the year following the darkspawn’s victory, he realized that perhaps Corypheus’ promises had been as empty as the throne he sought to rule from.

            “He strove for absolute power that he felt was stolen from him.” Samson said at last, “Once he realized his gods were dead and gone, I believe he shifted his plans to become a living god that would unite all beneath him. At least, that was what he told us. But what you saw…demons allowed to run amok…blood magic being practiced to sacrifice in his name…that is not the future I was promised.”

            Hadiza said nothing and for a while that was fine. The silence lingered, heavy and intense, the only sound was water rippling each time either of them adjusted. Samson rubbed her exposed shoulder, where gooseflesh had risen in the contrasting chill of the air. Along the side of the tube, Hadiza’s fire rune burned steadily, glowing like intricate embers.

            “Hey,” Samson muttered, narrowing his eyes, “what’s that?” He lifted Hadiza’s marked hand.

            “I think that’s the Anchor, love.” Hadiza chuckled, then yelped when he pinched a soft fold on the side of her belly.

            “Anchor’s green,” he said, “this here looks a bit red. You get bit by something? Roll around in some plants you shouldn’t have?” Hadiza frowned. It was a small detail, but against the stark green of her marked hand, the red stood out. In the beginning, Solas had managed to stymie the mark’s growth before it consumed and killed her, but it’s growth hand consumed her hand up to the wrist in glowing green marks. Since then, Hadiza often wore a full glove on that hand to hide it. But within the green-veined map of her left hand, one of those was glowing a deep and angry red. To Samson, that shade of red was all too familiar, but he cast it from his mind as the furthest thing from plausible.

            “Perhaps it’s naught to worry about,” Hadiza assured him, “it doesn’t itch or anything, and I’ve not felt anything that might allude to corruption.”

            “You wouldn’t know until it was too late,” Samson countered, “it doesn’t take you all at once. It encroaches, like vines in the undergrowth of a forest. You wouldn’t even know you were tangled up until you tried to run away.”

            Hadiza was quiet, looking a little sullen as Samson examined her hand. The mark split her palm, but the wound was no wound at all, merely a microcosm of the Fade itself, like a shard from one of the rifts was embedded in her palm, swirling with raw energy. The red did not reach the mark itself, but seemed contained to one vein.

            “Have Dorian take a look at this tomorrow,” Samson said quietly, his voice distant as he released her hand gently, and Hadiza sighed.

            “So much for not thinking tonight.” She mumbled petulantly. Samson snorted.

            “Is that a complaint or a request?” He growled. Hadiza bit her lip on a smile she shared only with the gathered steam, restraining a squeal as Samson’s hand cupped her breast, rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He hooked his feet along her ankles and parted her legs. His free hand slid beneath the water, fingers seeking and finding her sex. He brushed the folds gently, then settled for circling her clit.

            Hadiza whimpered.

            “Which is it?” He asked her softly, even as he rolled her nipple and clit between his fingers.

            Hadiza answered with a desperate groan that was unmistakable through the thin, wooden walls.

  

* * *

 

            The following morning, over breakfast, Hadiza delegated errands to her squad. They checked their supplies and stores, made sure their mounts had enough food and water, and split up to shop around Halamshiral. The trek across the Dales would be long and due to the nature of the land, there would be few opportunities to hide in such a wide-open expanse of land, so they would be exposed making camp until they reached the Wilds.

            They left Halamshiral in the late morning hour, refreshed, restocked, and ready for anything.

            Hadiza had Dorian look at the red vein in her arm, under Samson’s watchful eye, and the mage concluded that there wasn’t anything amiss just yet but to keep a close eye on it in case there were any changes. As it was within the area of the Anchor, it was not within Dorian’s purview to make a clear and concise call. As it was not causing her physical pain, nor did it seem to change her demeanor, Samson begrudgingly let the matter rest as they continued their journey to the Cradle of Sulevin.

            It took approximately one week for them to get there, and when they arrived, what they found was grotesquely horrifying.


	6. Veilfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The squad unleashes fresh hell on purpose.

            The first thing Cole started doing was talking.

            The words came rapidly, uncontrolled, like a leak in a dam, then a flood. He described the scene before them as it unfolded; likely mere days before they arrived by the looks of it. Hadiza gripped the reins of her mount tightly, lines of tension forming at the corners of her mouth, sterling eyes wide with incredulity at what she beheld.

            The Inquisition camp was in shambles.

            Tents were torn and shredded, smeared with soil and what was unmistakably blood. For a long time, no one moved, and not even wayward breeze sought to stir the macabre scene in front of them. The forest, it seemed, was holding its collective breath against something immeasurably insidious.

            “I can’t hear them,” Cole whispered, “why can’t I hear them?”

            “Because they aren’t here,” Dorian said gravely, “Inquisitor, there are no corpses.”

            Hadiza was as still as stone, but Dorian’s words served to breathe life back into her, evident by the slow blink of her eyes and then the set of her shoulders. He was right: no corpses, but it was clear someone or something had come here and ravaged the camp. She wished she’d brought Blackwall along, as he’d be able to tell what sort of struggle took place. Instead, Aja dismounted and began to walk forward.

            “Oy, Trevelyan,” Samson called, dismounting and coming after her, “don’t be in a hurry to run into what might be a trap.” Aja shot him an amused glance.

            “Cole,” Hadiza said quietly, “do you…hear anything? Anything unusual?”

            “I think that’s up for debate, Inquisitor,” Dorian chuckled, “Cole’s definition of unusual might vary.”

            “No.” Cole said firmly, “There is only silence. I don’t like it.”

            “Neither do we, lad.” Samson said gruffly, “We should search the area. Might be an animal did this.” Aja was already squatting, narrowing her eyes.

            “An animal would have left remains of some kind, Samson,” she said putting two fingers in the dirt to examine the trampling of tracks, “there was fighting…perhaps there are some in these untamed lands that did not take to the Inquisition setting up camp so close to the old ruins.”

            “No mages were involved,” Samson added as he shut his eyes, “there’s no residual magic here, and no burns marks on anything.” Aja stood, resting her hand easily on her sword as she and Samson exchanged a glance.

            “What’s our move, sister?” She asked as Hadiza, Dorian, and Cole joined them. Hadiza stared grimly around the camp, knowing that any attempts at finding their missing people would be fruitless with their small party. However, she could get a message to Skyhold and have Cullen send a search party to accompany Ariadne’s scouts. For now, her solution would have to be to continue the mission.

            “Let’s search the camp for any remaining supplies and press on,” Hadiza said much to her party’s surprise, “I cannot fathom us making any headway on a search with our small numbers. I’ll get a message to Skyhold and have Commander Cullen send a larger search party. For now, we have to ensure that whatever is in those ruins does not fall into enemy hands.”

            “Their trail could be cold by the time the search party arrives, Inquisitor,” Samson warned, “and we still have no idea who or what did this.”

            “I think I might know,” Dorian said grimly, walking past the group toward the path that lead to the temple ruins’ massive door, “see this? Necromancy.” He pointed to a burned symbol in the grass. It was half scraped away, but it was mostly intact. Dorian unclasped his spellbook from his belt and flipped through, attempting to match what remained of the symbol with what he had in his notes.

            “That’s likely why you couldn’t detect any residual magic, Samson,” He said at last, snapping the slender tome closed and refastening it to his belt, “The spell seems to have consumed any residual magic from the Fade. Fascinating! My guess is they have become enthralled to whomever or whatever cast the spell and are either in captivity, dead, or _un_ dead. What fun.” He returned to stand before them, smirking at Hadiza with all the arrogance he could muster.

            “You always take me to the most intriguing places, Hadiza,” he remarked idly, “I shall thank you now, of course, before I curse you later. We’ll likely be running for our lives soon enough and I’ll have you know these boots are of finest Antivan leather…not made for traipsing about in the untamed savagery of the Wilds.”

            Hadiza returned his smirk, chuckling darkly.

            “I’ll be sure to make it up to you, Dorian, I promise.” She muttered through her laughter. Dorian’s expression was critical and utterly skeptical of the nature of this promise, but he nodded.

            “Indeed you will. Now, shall we be on about this dreadful business of killing what are no doubt are former Inquisition scouts?”

            They pressed on ahead, not having much choice. Hadiza found a few lyrium potions and health potions still packed away in a crate, hidden beneath the tattered remains of a tent. After putting them in her pack, she sighed heavily. She had a foreboding feeling in her gut that this expedition was going to turn out worse. When they reached the temple’s massive doors, both she and Dorian immediately began searching for any type of arcane key that would be required to open it. Finding none, Samson and Aja stepped forward and between the two of them, managed to move the massive doors open just wide enough for them to slip inside, armor and all.

            Inside, the temple was largely intact but nature had reclaimed most of it. Carvings and statues were overgrown with verdant flora, vines crawling along the walls like an encroaching sickness, and the roots of mighty trees that had been left to grow unchecked, bursting through the broken stone floor like exposed veins. The squad minded their steps, heads on the swivel, senses straining to filter out any sound that rang discordant against the heavy quiet. Save for their own breathing, footfalls, and distant birdsong, there was no sound that heralded danger of any kind. The temple was the picture of perfect, ancient serenity.

            “Cole,” Hadiza said, her voice pitched just above a whisper, “anything?”

            “No.” The boy said flatly, “Just…who is whispering to you? It’s quiet…but bad.”

            Hadiza froze.

            “If you’re listening to my memories then please don’t,” she said through gritted teeth, “I need you to be listening for people and things that aren’t us.”

            Cole seemed genuinely confused, “But I am.”

            Samson narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. Now was not the time to ask Cole to elaborate on what he’d found sifting around inside Hadiza’s head, but he still cast Hadiza a questioning look. She shrugged, brows raised, silently deflecting. Fine, if she wanted to play that game, then he’d corner her when this expedition was over. They fanned out on Hadiza’s signal, weapons at the ready, inching further into the temple’s half-ruined vestibule.

            “Oh look! Veilfire sconces!” Dorian said cheerily, “This brings to mind the tender memory of that long and joyful sprint through the bogs of the Fallow Mire.” Hadiza bit her lip on a smile, knowing where this was going.

            “Oh let me light this, Dorian!” He mimicked in a mocking imitation of Hadiza’s voice, “I’m sure naught will come of it! What could possibly go wrong?”

            Hadiza snickered.

            “Everything,” Dorian continued, “everything went wrong. I was never quite able to get that ghastly shade of terror demon gore out of my coat. I had to throw. It. Out. Do _not_ light th—“

            Too late. Hadiza lit the first Veilfire sconce and Dorian flinched, waiting for the inevitable shriek of a terror demon and for this adventure to end as all their previous escapades did: with lots of killing, screaming, and running for their lives.

            “See?” Hadiza said, taking the Veilfire torch and holding it aloft, “No harm done.” Dorian narrowed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath.

            He exhaled when there was no telltale screech of a terror demon, and only the torch’s flame broke the silence that fell once more.

            “That was anticlimactic,” Aja grumbled, “I was kind of hoping Dorian was right. Guess it’s another archeological dig for the Inquisition.” She kicked a piece of rubble, the sound of it skipping across the moss-patched ground loud in the quiet antechamber.

            “Let’s keep moving,” Hadiza said, her face bathed in green light, “I doubt this entire place is as deserted as it sounds.” She turned, and passed into the atrium-like inner sanctum, foliage and rubble shifting beneath her gait in an eerie song that drove home the loneliness of the place. Samson was close behind, flanking her on the right, with Aja to the left. They stopped short when the floor gave way to a pit the led to the bottom chamber of the temple.

            “That’s rather convenient,” Dorian mused, “if one is looking to break their legs.”

            “Or we could find some fuckin’ stairs like we’ve some sense between us,” Samson grumbled and Hadiza pursed her lips.

            “We’ll explore the lower chamber later.” She ordered, “Let’s keep looking. Bound to be something around here we can use or salvage…shut it, Dorian.” She added before Dorian could make a quip. They moved on ahead, skirting around the large pit, minding their steps as they made their way across the ruined atrium. They came upon the statue so suddenly that Hadiza almost missed it. It was covered in vines, and without the Veilfire she may not have seen the hidden runes on it.

            “Well, well,” Hadiza said smugly, grinning, “looks like we’ve got our first clue. Dorian?” She caught his scent before she saw him, a warm, earthy musk that mixed with the smell of leather, and the loamy scent of sun-warmed foliage around them. The runes seemed to hum beneath the revealing light of the Veilfire torch, as if they strained to stay there. Dorian had his spellbook out, and was busy sketching the image of the ancient writing for study later, his brow knit in concentration, his eyes sharpened as he focused. He motioned to Hadiza to follow as they walked a circuit around the statue entirely.

            He sketched quickly, bold sweeping lines and a memory adept to holding the image born from countless years of poring over ancient tomes. Hadiza watched him, wondering where the inevitable research would take them upon their return to Skyhold. In the meanwhile, Aja, Samson, and Cole waited patiently as the two mages worked, with Cole taking deep, controlled breaths, listening for any discordant notes in the Veil as Hadiza had asked him to. Aja and Samson merely kept their heads on the swivel, waiting to see if their tampering had stirred anything yet.

            “All done,” Dorian said with a quick sigh, inspecting his handiwork before closing his tome and refastening it to his belt, “we’ll have to look them over when we return the rustic safety of your stronghold, Hadiza, but for now…feel free to unleash whatever fresh hell we’ve no doubt attracted with out presence.”

            Hadiza smirked and began to examine the statue. It was of elven make, of that there was no doubt, and the statue’s cupped hands seem to be holding something. In the light of the Veilfire she could make out the glittering edge of a blade, but out of it, the cupped hands of stone were empty.

            Hadiza brought the torch closer, revealing a length and broken blade.

            “Don’t get dramatic, sister,” Aja growled, “take the damn thing, already. I’m baking in my armor, here.”

            Hadiza grinned, reached for the blade, and gingerly grasped it and pulled it from its arcane altar.

            And all at once the surrounded came to vivid _life_.

            It began with the explosion of magic beneath their feet, a rune trap they had overlooked, and in truth not even _sensed_ , burst in a shower of flame and sparks. Dorian managed to shield them from the worst of it and Hadiza was knocked backward, landing hard against one of the mighty roots of the trees. It took a moment to right her world, and in that moment, she saw the lumbering but fresh corpses of what were once her Inquisition scouts.

            _So the culprit is not far behind, I’d wager_. She thought as she climbed to her feet with a grunt. Samson and Aja had already moved to dispatch them, their expressions equally grim as each of them came to terms with the fact that letters would be sent to the agents’ respective families, burials would be had, and names would be etched in stone in memorial. A year gone-by, and the dangers of Thedas remained to claim lives before their due time.

            Even worse, dispatching them was far, far too easy.

            An arrow glanced off of her shield, and she retaliated with a fireball. It was a weak spell, and yet the corpse burned and twisted in the arcane flames like branches in the wind. She tried not to think about the sounds of the scout dying, even as Cole beheaded it to quiet its shrieks of agony, looking wide-eyed as the boy no doubt absorbed the undead agent’s final thoughts. Hadiza would have to ask him to convey those wishes to her later, in case there was something that needed to be done when they held funeral rites in Skyhold.

            All told, there were only four agents to dispatch, and it went by quickly. And the silence that followed in its wake made Hadiza’s skin thrum with a sensation of foreboding. She knew, in the deepest part of herself that their trials were not over in this place.

            _Silence is a universal language_. A deep, pervasive whisper slipped into her mind, _But not, I think, one likes to hear when they seek answers_.

            Hadiza froze, nostrils flaring as she gripped her staff.

            “Who are you?” She whispered, mostly to herself. Cole said nothing; did he not hear it? He’d made mention of the whispers earlier. Did whatever was invading her mind find a way to shield itself from the spirit? No, it could not be. Cole was uniquely attuned to the pain and suffering of those around him. He sought out the wounds of the mind and soul and plucked them from his charges like a stone from a brook. If they wanted, he’d hurl the stone away, making them forget. And if they did not want that, he put the stone back.

            Hadiza wondered if the whispers had anything to do with pain.

            _Not pain_. The whisper was almost weary, the weight of it heavy and oppressive with a checked power, _But you will know it, Inquisitor. You will know it as your future unspools before you to its inevitable conclusion._

            “Diza?” Aja’s voice pulled Hadiza from her reverie, making her blink rapidly. Samson was staring at her, his brow creased in consternation, his lips twisted in a pensive expression as he sought answers in his own mind.

            “I’m fine,” Hadiza managed to grate out as she unclenched her teeth, “just…making preparations in my mind. Ariadne needs to be notified, and warnings issued…” She knew she was throwing up a smoke screen to hide the fact that she was likely devolving into insanity.

            “We should find the other pieces. Only two more, right?” Her staff retracted quickly, collapsing into a hafted blade as she took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, waiting for more taunting whispers.

            There was only silence, and for once, it was good.

            Their investigation continued apace, and Dorian filled the blank pages of his spare book with more elven runes as the Veilfire torch revealed them. In truth, both he and Hadiza were wishing Solas had not abandoned the Inquisition and vanished. He’d likely be able to tell them what the runes meant. As it stood, they had only their knowledge and their vast library to work with.

            Aja yawned, rather obnoxiously.

            “Well if you’re not doing anything pertinent to the mission, Lady Trevelyan,” Dorian quipped acidly, “perhaps you wouldn’t mind checking the lower chambers for more undead playmates!”

            “Anything’s better than watching you two get moon-eyed over a dead fucking language,” Aja muttered, kicking at a stone idly, and watching it skip across the ground and vanish into the hole of the ruined floor. Its landing was muted but still loud in the eerie silence.

            For a moment, they waited, but there was nothing stirring, and so they continued their exploration, with Hadiza lighting the Veilfire sconces they encountered along the way.

            The second part of the blade was runed and guarded in the same way, only this time the trap that activated brought forth minor shades and a rage demon. Samson alone could have easily dispatched the lot, but he let Dorian and Hadiza handle them, while he, Aja, and Cole provided blade and shield support.

            “Two down,” Hadiza breathed triumphantly, wrapping the second piece in leather, “shall we brave the darkness below?”

            “No,” Dorian replied, “we shouldn’t. But knowing you, that’s exactly what we’re going to do.” Hadiza grinned, taking up the Veilfire torch once more. Cole hesitated and Aja met his gaze, unflinching.

            “Too quiet, eh?” She laughed.

            “I am not used to this much quiet,” Cole said, glancing around, “none of you are as loud as you used to be. Except Hadiza. She is always talking, now.”

            “She is rather chatty,” Samson said with a chuckle, “just mind your manners and don’t go blurting out whatever’s in people’s heads, boy.”

            The stairs to get to the lower chamber were hidden beneath heavy foliage, and part of them were crumbled to ruin, making the descent dangerous as the Veilfire momentarily became their one source of light. The loamy scent of green, growing things became stronger, and in the heavy and oppressive silence, the scrabbling of insects could be heard in the distance.

            The alter in the center of the chamber was unusually free of overgrowth, as if the flora feared to touch it. The roots and vines around its base were browned and rotten, twisted and dry as if something had sucked the very life from them; all of this…in a perfect circle around the altar.

            “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” Aja muttered, “I’m no mage and even I can tell this is a bad idea. Hadiza, how badly do we need this sword?” Hadiza did not look away from the stone altar, which jutted from the ground amidst the ruin of the chamber, pristine and oddly serene. It was too far from the Veilfire sconces for her to see its activation runes, but she knew that something was off about it.

            “It’s the hilt, Aja,” she murmured, “we’ve got to retrieve it for study. Otherwise this entire mission will have been a waste. Cole, can you make yourself scarce? Samson, Aja, come to the ready…I’ve a feeling there’s more than a few corpses we may have to fight. Dorian, shield me.”

            There was the sound of explosive powder as Cole vanished from sight, and a crackling hiss as Dorian cast an arcane shield over Hadiza. Samson and Aja warily took up positions on either side of the statue, shields up, swords drawn, and Hadiza stood before the altar, illuminating the runes to activate it and take the final piece. She reached for it, admiring its pristine and fine leather hilting, the carefully crafted pommel, and them wrapped her fingers around it, finding it warm.

            “That’s strange,” she laughed, “it’s as if—“ The rune came without warning, spreading around their feet, igniting, and then exploding. Hadiza lost her grip on the broken hilt and found herself launched across the room, her armor barely smoldering as the shield gave way. She landed in a roll as the shockwave of the blast cleared the floor of rubble and foliage alike.

            She heard Cole cry out a warning, but her ears were ringing too loudly, the words were muffled. As she climbed to her feet, she opened her mouth to call out to her companions.

            She coughed instead, her throat itching with dust.

            “Hadiza!” It was Samson, “Andraste’s flaming arsehole, what the fuck was that?” He was on his feet, his face covered in dust, but he was ready. Aja was too, coughing as she sought to clear the dust from her throat. Dorian seemed to be the only one who was able to shield himself from the blast.

            “I don’t know,” Hadiza croaked, “some kind of explosive—“

            “It’s angry!” Cole cried. Hadiza blinked and saw what he meant. The Veilfire torch had been blown clear, leaving only the heavy darkness and the single shaft of sunlight from the upper level. Against that darkness, a deeper shadow began to take shape and as it did, Hadiza understood what it was they were about to face. It’s armor was char-black, its helm crafted in the likeness of wicked spires, and within two eyes glowing crimson. The Revenant drew its steel, a thick but keen blade of obsidian, and its shield to match.

            “Fuck.” Hadiza whispered, and then all hell broke loose.


	7. Excavation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a problem. A really familiar problem.

            There were many creatures that populated Thedas that were universally agreed upon one should never take on unprepared: dragons, of course, darkspawn of a surety, and even bears, to name a few. There were many situations in which one could find themselves quite dead if they did not assemble the proper team or even plan for the contingency. Even so, there were still some creatures that were powerful enough to give even the most seasoned adventurers pause.

            A Revenant, for all intents and purposes, should not have been one of them, depending on the nature of the creature. They were essentially a greater undead possessed by a demon. Hadiza knew, without having to fight it, that this particular demon was old…and formidable.

            Revenants did not speak, not usually, as the tongue in the undead corpse’s mouth had long since shriveled to uselessness, and the vocal cords were all but rotted away. There was no way it should have been able to speak, but the demon did laugh. Hadiza didn’t know if others could hear it, but she could tell it was laughing at them.

            For a moment, no one moved, and the Revenant’s head turned this way and that, sizing up its opponents. Samson’s grip on his blade adjusted accordingly. He met Aja’s gaze across the room. She gave a subtle nod, dropping her stance and bringing up her shield. Even Cole was silent, moving like a ghost aft of the impossibly tall creature.

            It was looking at Hadiza. She could see that the lips were rotted away, revealing only the skeleton’s teeth in a death’s head grin. It was unnerving to see.

            “Fuck.” She eked out, her voice just below a whisper. She barely registered the sound of a chain being unspooled, as the Revenant’s grappling claw launched toward her. There was a sound like crumbling stone as Hadiza brought up her rock armor and dove aside, flinching inwardly as the grappling claw snapped at the empty air where she once stood.

            The smell of charged ozone commingled with the loam and stench of a rotting corpse as the Revenant stumbled from a bolt of lightning. Dorian watched it with an intensely focused gaze, settling into his spellcasting for battle. The Revenant did not even slow in its attacks. Samson and Aja both unleashed hell, engaging it from two sides, forcing its concentration on the two of them. They ducked in, shields up, opening just enough to swing, probing for weaknesses in its armor. Samson knew that he could weaken the Revenant with his abilities, but he risked injuring and incapacitating both Dorian and Hadiza in the process.

            The Revenant whirled, its hulking mass covering more ground as it closed the distance between itself and Samson. He brought up his sun-shield, channeling his strength into it, and momentarily stunning the creature as the chamber flooded with a blinding flare of light. Dorian struck again, this time with a cage of lightning. Cole’s daggers found the kink in its armor and held it fast. Aja followed through, coming behind the paralyzed Revenant with her grappling chain, pulling it back.

            And Hadiza sprinted forward, delivering a well-placed stone fist to the creature, which let out a dry and eerie growl of frustration as it struggled to break free. Hadiza’s staff, tipped with a well-honed blade, came up in a smooth arc, the blade and the strike itself should have been enough to kill a man.

            The Revenant blocked it with one vambraced arm, and in one motion, broke free of all of them. It was clear to all of them in that moment that they were dealing with a creature far beyond their usual fair. Its head turned this way and that, and reached for Hadiza, catching her by the arm to lift her, then toss her away. The rock armor saved her from the bulk of the damage as she crashed through hanging vines, stopped only by a pillar, which dented on impact.

            Hadiza was very still when she landed; too still.

            Samson didn’t let the anger and panic that flared in his blood control him; he was no good to her fighting blind, none of them were. If they couldn’t bring this fucking bastard down, then they’d have to beat a hasty retreat. He hated running from a fight, but this wasn’t his first bout with a Fade-borne nasty without the aid of his red lyrium armor. He could take this thing, or at the very least, slow it enough for them to make an escape.

            Aja was making no headway on it, and Dorian was consuming more lyrium to bolster his spells. Samson knew without having to use his abilities, that the Revenant was too powerful for all of them. It bore down on Aja first, and her Reaver rage saved her for most of the battle, and her speed allowed her to dodge the heavy blows from its sword, but her shield bash barely made it stumble.

            Dorian was kneeling over Hadiza, his hands glowing a soft green. She twitched once, a gasp of air forced into defeated lungs, and then she was up, downing a lyrium potion. Samson was aware, even in the midst of keeping the Revenant distracted, of the bright, glowing blue drops of it that stained her lips.

            “You have to use the Anchor, Hadiza!” Dorian told her, “There’s no other way to slow it down!”

            Hadiza hesitated, but then broke into a sprint. The Revenant turned in time to see her open her marked hand, and the room was flooded with bright green light. The Fade’s raw magic spilled into the room, above their heads, and both Samson and Aja stepped out of the ring as the energy began to build up. The Revenant slowed, trying to charge, but the Fade held it in check, draining its defenses bit by bit.

            “Hadiza…” Dorian’s eyes grew wide with alarm as he saw the encroaching red chasing the pipe of one vein in Hadiza’s arm; the red vein that had been so small just a week ago and had not grown since; the red vein that was now turning the green glow of the anchor into the same angry shade.

            “Hadiza, stop!” Dorian cried, and he didn’t know why, but he knew something was wrong. Hadiza didn’t stop, her face a rictus of determination as she drained the Revenant until it collapsed on its knees. The red spread quickly, and suddenly the energy of the Fade lashed back out…toward her.

            Her scream was cut off by the blast, which jarred her arm up to the shoulder and sent her stumbling back. Aja came up behind the weakened Revenant, her blade whistling once through the air as she cleaved its head from its shoulders. Samson was already backing his shield and sheathing his sword. Dorian held Hadiza steady, and Samson let out a guttural swear at the sight of her left arm. There was a single vein of red spreading from the Anchor up to her elbow. It’s glow was a pulsating, morbid thing, and Samson knew what it was, knew without having to say it, and the dread that gripped him was cold and hot all at once. It sent him back to a place of hyperawareness, making his skin tingle as if ants marched along it. He took in a deep breath, never tearing his eyes from that glowing red vein.

            “We’ve gotta get outta here,” Aja said as she retrieved the final piece, “back to Skyhold. Fast.”

            “Agreed,” Dorian said, “our Lady Inquisitor is not doing so well.”

            Hadiza tried to lift her hanging head, and found the effort too difficult. When she spoke, no words came, just a rasp of air as she struggled for breath. Her rock armor had saved her from breaking most of her limbs, but the Anchor’s unusual backlash had sapped her of most of her strength.

            “He’s still angry.” Cole whispered, fearful almost. Samson couldn’t make heads or tails of what the boy was about, and elected to ignore him. This wasn’t the time for riddles and half-baked observations.

            “Strip the Revenant,” Hadiza managed to breathe out, “…its armor could be useful…” She lifted her gaze just enough to see it lying still and motionless on the temple’s ruined floor. Aja sighed and began the gruesome task of stripping the creature of its armor and weapons, leaving only the shriveled husk of an ancient corpse which immediately crumbled to dust as soon as her fingers touched it.

            By the time they made their way out of the temple, night had long since fallen, but the ruins of the Inquisition camp were blessedly silent, their mounts unmolested, and the forest eerily quiet and serene. They opted to take any remaining supplies and make their way toward the main road, and Samson took on the task of lashing Hadiza to the saddle of his own mount, riding behind her.

Nyx, free of his rider, was tasked with carrying the extra supplies and led behind them on a lead. They’d have to stop in Halamshiral again before going back to Skyhold, he knew, because despite her efforts, Hadiza was more injured than she let on, and the red vein in her arm hadn’t stopped glowing, as if something had illuminated the blood within.

            “Hang in there, princess,” he murmured into her hair as she leaned back against his armored chest, “we’ll figure this shit out soon.” Hadiza said nothing, but she took silent comfort in his words as they pressed on. The journey back was slow, but it was rather uneventful since facing off against the Revenant. In a way, Samson was both relieved and angry that Hadiza had used the Anchor; relieved because a problem they hadn’t known about had made itself known, and angry because there was a problem.

            His agitation did not go unnoticed by Dorian or Aja when they finally reached Halamshiral, and while Hadiza slept in their rented room, watched over by Cole, Samson opted to drown his troubles in strong ale. Aja and Dorian sat across from him, looking just as pensive.

            “Be honest, Samson,” Aja began without preamble, “is it what we think it is?” Dorian was sipping on something that came out of a bottle probably older than Tevinter, and Aja was drinking something frothy and bitter. Samson took another hard pull and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

            “I think it is,” he answered bluntly, “looks just like how the corruption took some of the templars. It’s slow for some, real quick for others. Never could figure out the why of it, though.” Dorian leaned forward, his expression grave.

            “If this is in fact what we think it is, then we need to get to the young Arcanist immediately. We have no idea how this will affect a mage.” Dorian paused, eyes narrowing slightly, “That reminds me: how is it you have managed to resist corruption all this time?” Samson gave Dorian his broken-toothed grin.

            “Special, I guess,” he said through his grin, “but in all honesty, even Dagna hasn’t been able to figure that out. She guesses it’s got something to do with the fact that I was already ingesting so much lyrium that the red wasn’t much different than the blue…just more powerful.” Aja made a face.

            “That’s well and good but my sister might very well be poisoned by that shit,” she growled, “and we have no idea how it will react to the mark on her hand. You saw what happened back there.” They fell silent, each remembering. Hadiza rarely used the Anchor against foes, not unless they were too powerful for their squad to handle alone. The Revenant had successfully proven it needed to be powered down, but the Anchor. Samson hid his grimace in his mug of ale, remembering the green light of the Fade turning an angry red, making him wonder.

            None of this shit made any sense.

            “Who the fuck else can we ask if not Dagna?” He wondered aloud, and neither Dorian nor Aja could provide an answer. Aja finished her drink and stood.

            “We’ll get no answers here,” she said, “we need to get some rest if we plan to ride hard the remainder of the journey.”

            “When will someone tame the dragons so we can just fly to our destination?” Dorian wondered wistfully. Aja clapped a hand on the mage’s shoulder and chuckled.

            “We’ve slain how many dragons since you joined? You’re welcome to hunt for some eggs or somethin’ next time we go dragon slaying.” Aja offered. Dorian rolled his eyes.

            “I’ll pass. Let me know when you all do something sensible…like not try and get yourselves killed.” He drained the remainder of his wine and stood. Samson knew he needed to sleep. He hadn’t been sleeping well since they left the Cradle of Sulevin. He’d been lying awake most nights, staring at the glowing vein on Hadiza’s arm, trying to swear that it wasn’t spreading, trying to reassure himself that what was happening was something else and not born of his own mistakes.

            He knew it had something to do with him. Not directly, but it was his fault in some way. For the first time, Samson knew the old despair that he’d managed to avoid in the last year. Here was someone that he chose—someone he _loved_ —and now she too would be corrupted by his mistakes. He took in a deep breath, and felt the wash of something unclean on his soul. Hadiza had done everything she could to assure he had an opportunity to turn his life around, and bit by struggling bit, he had. And how had he repaid her?

            With corruption.

            Was there anything in this blighted world he could touch without it turning to shit or dying for his sake?

            He struggled to reel in the betraying thoughts, struggled to regain his sense of self, but the fear of the unknown was a strong current and he was floundering. He had to be strong, if not for himself, then for her sake. This could be reversed, this could be fixed; he just had to find a way. How many times had they saved each other’s asses since he became her champion? How many times had she pulled his ass out of harm’s way with no regard for her own life? How many times had he shielded her from a blow that would have ended her?

            When during that time was she exposed to the red…if this was the red at all?

            Hadiza rolled and adjusted in her sleep, yawning as she roused partially to look at him.

            “Mm…why aren’t you resting?” She mumbled, her eyes already heavy-lidded and nearly closed. Samson managed a smile.

            “Got a lot on my mind, princess,” he told her, “go back to sleep.” Hadiza was already asleep before he finished his sentence and for a moment, he nearly forgot about the disparaging thoughts that plagued him. Eventually, exhaustion won out and he settled down to sleep, holding her close.

            The next morning found them downstairs, squaring up the night’s debts and preparing to leave for Skyhold. Hadiza had already sent in reports and messages regarding the mission in the Cradle of Sulevin, but she left out the red vein in her arm, which after Dorian’s careful inspection, had not seemed to grow any further since its rapid spread in the Cradle. Satisfied that her health would hold long enough for them to find answers, the squad mounted up and made for Skyhold. The journey itself felt shorter, and by the time they climbed the mountains and spotted the keep, messengers had already passed the word of the Inquisitor’s return. They were received with warmth and smiles, and even Samson did not feel the pins-and-needles prickle of judgment in his wake as they made their way into the grounds. Stablehands and servants aided in disassembling their supplies, and packing the mounts away to be washed down, brushed, and stabled. Road-weary and sore, they climbed the steps into the keep itself. Josephine, Ariadne, and Cullen were already there to receive them.

            “Inquisitor,” Josephine greeted with a gracious imperiousness, “it is wonderful to have you back among us. When you have settled, shall we go over the reports in the war room?” Hadiza blinked in the harsh light of the main hall, and looked around.

            “Yes,” she said absently, “the war room.” Samson did not miss the slight shift in Ariadne’s expression, the slight narrow of her eyes, the subtle downturn of her mouth, and a barely noticeable crease in her brow.

            So she saw it too, then.

            “I need a day’s rest, Josephine,” Hadiza said slowly, “and then we can review the reports from my exploits. Does this sit well with you all?”

            “I’d much rather go over them immediately,” Ariadne replied, “as the loss of my entire reconnaissance team is dire news indeed. But I will respect your wish, Inquisitor. The journey was not an easy one, of that I have no doubt.” Cullen glanced between Ariadne and Hadiza. From the way the two of them addressed one another, it would be impossible to believe they were siblings.

            “I too am troubled by this report, Inquisitor,” Cullen agreed, “but you have the right of it. A day’s rest, and then we shall resume business on the morrow.”

            “Very well, Inquisitor,” was all Josephine had to add. Hadiza nodded at each of her advisers in turn, and shuffled off toward her chambers, a slight, fatigued slump in her shoulders. Before he could follow, Cullen caught Samson at the elbow.

            “Be truthful,” Cullen said in a low voice once Hadiza had vanished into the side door, “what happened out there? Hadiza looks…unwell.” Samson hesitated. If Hadiza hadn’t shared the news, then there was likely a reason for it. On the other hand, if this corruption was spreading to her mind and impairing her judgment, it was just as easy to assume that there was no reason for the omission and blame it on pure negligence instead.

            “She got sick while we were down there,” Samson replied after a beat, “I had Dorian take a look at her and he said she’d be alright. Just let her rest.”

            He didn’t want to lie to Cullen, but it wasn’t his place to figure out what was best for Hadiza. They still weren’t sure what the red vein in her arm signified. To inflame Cullen’s panic and inherent fear would lead the man to a veritable witch hunt for apostates, abominations, and blood mages all over again. Samson didn’t want Hadiza’s deep fear of Cullen’s prejudices to cloud her judgment and aggravate her emotions. She did a fantastic job of keeping her powers in check, but this unknown variable could see that changed.

            Cullen’s expression told Samson that the man clearly wasn’t having it, but he would let the matter rest for now. It was still a rift of uncertainty between the two former templars. Cullen had given up the Order but not the Chantry—not his devotion, and certainly not his prejudices and fears. Samson understood that, better than most, as he could see the stark difference between the reticent and wild-eyed man that had stepped off the boat in Kirkwall, and the Lion of Honnleath that stood before him, now. A woman was not the cause for contention between them; it never had been, although Hadiza did have her own part to play. Cullen was amongst many things, a prideful man, and it had not reflected well on him when his relationship with Hadiza had ended, only to have her begin one with Samson later on. His pride and ego were wounded, but over the year he seemed to have gotten over it. Samson, for his part, had learned to tolerate Cullen’s insufferable self-righteousness, especially once it had been established that the two men who loved the same woman only wanted the same thing.

            Still, Samson could not help but feel a little smug that he had subverted the old stories and gotten the girl in the end.

            “Let her **rest** , Rutherford,” Samson warned, and the general in him came out, a wolf with a wrinkled muzzle and lips pulled back, revealing the fangs, “and we’ll figure out the rest. A lot of shit went down in that place, but we finished the mission. Just see to it that those men and women we lost have their next of kin notified and are given a proper memorial.” Without waiting for the Commander’s reply, Samson turned and followed Hadiza’s trail back to her chambers.


	8. Zazzabi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Zazzabi_ is Hausa for 'fever.'

            Aja was not one who panicked. Years spent on the high seas, where the ocean could kill as often as it soothed—with little enough difference betwixt the two—had seen Aja’s nerves tempered to a fine and hardened steel. She had seen the red vein in her sister’s arm, had watched it shift the seemingly natural and pure green energy of the Fade into the angry and familiar red that had been Corypheus’ power. She wanted to believe it was mere coincidence; that it was mayhap some quirk of the Anchor they had yet to discover.

            She knew better than to chalk anything up to coincidence, especially where harmful magic was concerned.

            “You’ve been looking like you want to quietly murder someone since you got back,” Blackwall remarked, setting down his carving tools to watch her. Aja was leaned against the wall across from him, but she’d been staring intently into nothing for the better part of half and hour. Her painted brows drawn in a frown, nostrils flared, black lips set in a firm and pensive line. She looked up at him, silver eyes sharp.

            “Hadiza took ill while we fought a Revenant. Something is wrong with the Anchor.” She said quietly. At that, Blackwall motioned up the ladder, to the loft where he kept his humble abode. Aja climbed up first and he followed. In the loft, they were sufficiently out of earshot and shielded from prying eyes. Aja sat on the straw-stuffed mattress where they made their bed.

            “She took ill,” Blackwall observed, “or her magic is backfiring?” Aja met his gaze again, and Blackwall had his answer.

            “So,” he said, “what do you intend to do?”

            “Nothing,” Aja said, “not yet, at least. We’re going to have Dagna take a look and see if she can figure out what’s wrong. It’s been a year…why would anything go wrong, now?” Her expression was caught between anxiety and fury. Blackwall knew the line her mind chased like a siren’s song past the Lethe of hell’s gates. He’d had his suspicions, but he’d not let them be voiced until he was absolutely certain.

            “You don’t think he’d…?” Aja began. Blackwall tilted his head, sucking his teeth idly.

            “From his display over the past year? No. But we’ve been wrong about people before, Aja. He doesn’t seem the type of man to play a clever and long a game as this one.” Blackwall was not one to mince words, which Aja could appreciate, but still…an entire year and Hadiza was only just beginning to show signs of corruption. Why wait? What did Samson have to gain if he was in fact the culprit?

            Aja sifted her mind and found no answers.

            “Aja,” Blackwall pulled her from her thoughts, “let the mages handle it. Only so much you can do, after all. For now, just rest up.” Aja ran her calloused hands over her face with a grunt.

            “You’re right,” she acceded and Blackwall snorted as if to say of course he was, “but she needs me. And now that the seed of doubt has been planted…” Blackwall came to her then, sitting beside her on the humble bed.

            “It’s not doubt until he shows signs that he might have somewhat to do with it. We don’t even know what _it_ is, yet. Just be patient, and vigilant.” Aja smiled at him wryly, but there was tenderness there too.

            “That a bit of Warden wisdom?” She asked him dryly and he laughed.

            “No,” he told her with a hearty chuckle, “that’s mine. Now, you going to get out of your armor and clean it?”

 

* * *

 

            Ariadne had just finished penning a missive when Cullen found her in the rookery. She selected her personal raven; a sleek female named Eve, and began attaching the missive in the tiny tubes the ravens carried. She heard Cullen long before she saw him, but she suspected that he was not aiming for subtlety. Many in the Inquisition had tentatively tried their hand at surprising the Ghost, to no avail. Leliana had chosen her successor well ere she ascended the Sunburst Throne.

            “Commander,” she said conversationally, “to what do I owe the honor of you blessing my humble domain?” She glanced over her shoulder as she sent the raven on its way, smiling. Cullen returned her smile tersely.

            “Writing to Rylen again?” He asked her. By this time, the names of those who knew the Inquisition’s spymaster was involved with Cullen’s second-in-command could be counted on one hand. Josephine, Hadiza, and Aja knew. Anyone else was speculating, but she doubted it. She shrugged.

            “Mayhap,” she said noncommittally, “but that is not why you have come, Commander. You are here about the Inquisitor’s unusual decline in health, no?” Cullen wanted to swear. Leliana had been reticent in her observations of people, likely for their own sake, but Ariadne seemed unapologetic about reading people’s intentions as if they’d written it on their foreheads for her to see. From the slight almost-smile playing at the corners of her mouth, it was clear she took some measure of amusement in the discomfort she caused in people. It was easy to forget that she was a shark, always seeking the blood in the water.

            “So you saw it as well,” Cullen said at last, “what do you think happened?” Ariadne said nothing, but turned to walk away. For a moment, Cullen thought she was ignoring him, but then realized she wanted him to follow. He hastened his step to catch up. One of the doors in the rookery led to what used to be an old storage room, but had been converted into an office over time.

            Cullen shut the door behind them.

            The office was Spartan in appearance upon first glance, with a mahogany desk and a cushioned, temptingly comfortable chair behind it. On the side was a small cot, neatly tended to. A small wardrobe dominated the opposite wall and Cullen understood that Ariadne likely spent more nights sleeping here than she’d ever admit. That was, when she wasn’t away ‘on business’ in the Western Approach.

            “It is not a question of what I think, Commander,” Ariadne said, still formal, as she turned to face him, “it is a question of what must be done, now. What we think happened does not matter. The Inquisitor’s health _is_ rather questionable, and I highly doubt it was due to some…bug she caught while in the Wilds. You read the reports.”

            Cullen hesitated. Not a question. He nodded firmly.

            “She mentioned that your scouts had become undead, but there was no mention as to who destroyed the camp and did it. Was it the Revenant?” Ariadne leaned back against her desk, shaking her head.

            “No,” she replied firmly, “Revenants are not mages. They are merely corpses possessed by powerful demons. Someone must have gotten to the Cradle after my scouts did. They left no trail for us to follow.”

            “Perhaps it was not the Revenant but some other magical entity within the ruins,” Cullen offered, “it’s very well possible that they ventured into the ruins and something followed them back out.”

            “But what?” Ariadne countered, “Dorian said he found necromancy symbols burned into the ground by the ruined camp. Perhaps whatever did this is still out there.”

            Cullen wanted to run his fingers through his hair.

            “What of Hadiza? Could she have been compromised by whatever was in the ruins?”

            Ariadne let out a bark of laughter.

            “Cullen you’re asking me as if I know. I was here in Skyhold same as you when all of this happened.”

            Cullen was quiet.

            “She’s your sister.” He said in a low voice. Ariadne laughed again.

            “Yes, my sister, who didn’t even know I existed until a year prior. Cullen you mistake my duty to the Inquisition for filial piety. Hadiza and I are related by blood, but we’ve no bond so close that I can read her every thought. If you are so hellbent on this course, ask the Reaver.”

            Cullen’s nostrils flared.

            “That’s the problem. No one is saying anything about the change in Hadiza.”

            “Then maybe she is simply sick, Cullen!” Ariadne snapped. Cullen’s eyes went wide. Ariadne generally never raised her voice or got angry, but it seemed there was yet another thing he did not know about the woman.

            “You’re worried too.” Cullen stated. Ariadne said nothing, drawing herself up.

            “If she’s come down with something the Inquisition and its resources have no defense against? Yes, I’m worried. I didn’t survive all these years to meet my end at the hands of my sister. Let the mages handle it for now, Cullen. All of this worrying will do nothing for either of us.”

            She was right, of course; worrying would get them nowhere, and so Cullen had no choice but to wait until they received word.

            “Let us hope it is merely sickness and not something worse,” he said as he opened the door to leave. Ariadne shrugged.

            “I do not trust to hope,” she said, “merely that whatever comes we have the means to handle it.”

 

* * *

 

            Normally, after an expedition, Hadiza would take her time; luxuriate in the softened bath water of her ornate tub with her oils and soaps, polishing herself until she scrubbed away the last roughness of her adventures from her satin skin. Normally, she would piddle about her quarters, reading reports, snacking on sweets and pastry courtesy of the baker, who always had a batch ready upon her return.

            Hadiza accorded herself none of these charming niceties, and instead bathed and collapsed into her bed, still in her fluffy bathing robe. The red vein in her arm had been an angry distraction in the bath, glowing and pulsating, but what was worse were the whispers. Incoherent and disjointed, few words recognizable, as if she were listening to a conversation from too far away.

            It was sometimes one voice, sometimes many, and she could not quiet them save with sleep, and so she did.

            Samson didn’t come to her until an hour later, when the dampness of her skin was dry and her hair was a cloud of curled frizz. He didn’t disturb her, save to adjust her precarious position at the edge of the bed. It roused her, of course, but he cajoled her back to sleep. After her grumbling subsided and she slept, Samson took that time out for himself. He caught himself standing in front of the westward-facing balcony doors, watching the sun sink beneath the mountain peaks. He could smell autumn encroaching as summer began to wane, the sun settling in earlier and earlier each evening. Samson enjoyed Hadiza’s company immensely, but these moments, when it seemed he was the only one in the world, were precious too.

            He stood in absolute stillness as Skyhold was subsumed under the calm familiar hush at the onset of the evening prayer. While none considered Samson to be an introspective man, he did not merely stand in eerie stillness, gazing down at the Inquisition. Still in his armor, he was as unmoved as living statuary, his gaze intensely focused, potential energy coiling around him; something that was impossible to quench in its entirety, but otherwise the full of his thoughts and efforts were turned inward.

            Oddly, he was thinking of Maddox and by association, Meredith as well. He had never once taken the time out to truly consider the weight on his soul. Meredith had been a tyrant, paranoid with her own prejudices. Maddox had been one of many victims of her tyranny, all because Samson had agreed to help the boy. He deserved better than what he got. Ironically, getting them out of Kirkwall had been easy in the chaos, but even then, even while he labored under Corypheus’ employ, he sought to keep Maddox safe from harm. He sought only to repay him for the damage already done.

            And that too had been met with monumental failure.

            How many templars would never get the opportunity he was given? How many of them died of corruption, alone in a sea of corpses in the Arbor Wilds?

            How many had Hadiza slain herself just to find him?

            When she judged him, she hadn’t taken Cullen’s words into consideration. No, the man had been hell bent on besmirching him the entire time, as if he knew…as if he understood. But now he wondered: how many templars had survived and how many couldn’t even be sent home in a pine box?

            A slower, deeper breath reanimated the man and he blinked against the sudden, deepening darkness of dusk, like a sleepwalker brought to the waking world once more. He turned and began the process of stripping off his armor; quiet and efficient, grunting and sighing as the weight of it was finally transferred to the armor stand by Hadiza’s desk. Rolling the tension from his shoulders and stretching road-weary limbs, Samson opted for a quick scrub before he joined Hadiza in bed. She was very still, her breathing even and deep, the rasp of a light snore signifying she was well and truly asleep. Samson, for his part, could find no sleep that night, so he lay awake, realizing belatedly and with a grin that the bed had been replaced while they’d been away.

            For the first time in a long while, Samson paid attention to the lyrium song in his blood. He’d been distracted all this time, kept constantly busy while helping to stitch Thedas back together, bit by ragged bit. He’d almost forgotten about the encroachment of his own corruption, held at bay by the blue. It was an uphill battle, and the pain on most days ranged from tolerable to teeth-grinding agony. The tonic Dorian had made for him had been helping, and the dosages were taken in conjunction with his lyrium. It was easy enough for Hadiza to miss. He hadn’t wanted to worry her. But now he wondered if somehow his immunity to the taint had made him careless. He resisted the red and the blue alike, but Hadiza was not immune. Unconsciously, he turned his head to gaze at the vein in Hadiza’s arm. The Anchor was quiet, dormant in its eerie silence, but the red vein glowed, made vivid in the darkness. He’d seen it’s like before, in the red templars who were overtaken by the corruption, and of course in—

            Samson sat up abruptly with a quiet swear, remembering.

            Of course he wasn’t the fucking cause! He climbed out of bed, hastily pulling on his boots and leaving trying not to sprint down the steps. He had to find Dorian. Dorian was the only one who could fix this.

 

* * *

 

 

            “I should have Hadiza try and execute you for ruining my sleep, Samson,” was Dorian’s initial response to Samson’s rather urgent knocking; one of those knocks almost took him in the face. The mage was bleary-eyed and not at all eager to be dragged off into whatever misadventure Samson seemed to have planned.

            “You can fry me later, Vint,” Samson growled, “I think I might have a clue as to what’s corru—bugging Hadiza.” At his words, Dorian stilled. There was a sharpness that came into his eyes, and for a moment Samson was sure he’d take him up on the invitation to fry him, but Dorian wordlessly retreated into the darkness of his room. There was the sound of rummaging, of boots being laced and buckled, and Dorian returned.

            “Show me.” He said firmly and Samson led Dorian away, back through the main hall, and instead of to the Inquisitor’s quarters, he led the mage downward, toward the room that Hadiza once used for scrying. Since nearly being possessed by Corypheus, Hadiza hadn’t sought to reconstitute the scrying circle, nor had she sought to put on the mask since then. The room was empty, save for the furniture, but the evidence of that night was still there, like an old corpse long since dried to a husk. The scrying circle was still burned into the stone, but part of it had been stricken away. Dorian took one look at all of this and set his jaw, firm and determined.

            “You think Corypheus may have gotten to her.” He stated. Samson gave a slow nod. Dorian didn’t pass the ingress of the scrying chamber, perhaps out of some lingering apprehension that the room was tainted by the events of that night, or perhaps because there was no point, but he didn’t move.

            “I thought it was established that Corypheus could not shift to another body unless it carried the Taint,” Dorian said, genuinely puzzled, “is that not the whole reason he was able to control the Grey Wardens and possess their bodies effortlessly?”

            “Aye,” Samson agreed, “but Hadiza was half in the Fade when she sought him out, and he’d gotten a grip on her for a long time before I severed the spell.” Dorian drummed his fingers on his thigh, pensive and quiet.

            “If their exchange took place in the Fade, Samson, I can’t help you.” He said at last and Samson turned fully to face him, prepared to threaten him no doubt, “But I may know someone who can. If Hadiza’s problem is hiding in the Fade, then my contact should be able to find it.”

            Samson blinked, clearly confused. Dorian gave a charming but muted smile.

            “I’m speaking, of course, of a _somniari_ , Samson. Honestly, try to keep up. Hadiza praised your arcane knowledge so willfully. Have you reached its boundaries already?”

 

* * *

 

 

            As it turned out, a _somniari_ was singularly difficult to locate. Not only that, but Dorian mentioned that the individual moved around quite a bit, so finding him would take time. Until then, neither he nor Samson would breathe a word of their discovery to anyone. If Hadiza was in fact being possessed, any advantage they had could be lost if she found out. So they were quiet, and between the two men, it was much better that way. Dorian enlisted Ariadne’s fleet of ravens for the task of sending out the necessary missives, while Samson tended to Hadiza’s health. She was stable for now, but Samson’s templar vigilance was on edge, waiting to see if any changes took place. It seemed, as long as Hadiza did not use the Anchor, the vein did not spread.

            The fever started later on in the week.

            Hadiza had adjourned her meetings for the day, taking to her rooms for a much-needed reprieve. Samson had been aiding Cullen with inventory, ensuring that his forces maintained their training. He offered mostly consultation services, as he knew that some in the ranks would not take to having their former enemy barking orders at them. A messenger came to him during the muggy afternoon, citing that the Inquisitor needed to see him at once. Alarmed, Samson had relieved himself and went to attend to the issue immediately. When he bounded up the steps to her bedchamber, he told the messenger to hang back and wait in the main hall by the door. When the lad did as he was bid, Samson entered the bedchamber proper.

            Hadiza was a mess. Ice covered her, and part of the floor, and she was mewling like an animal in pain.

            “Hadiza, what in the Void…?!” Samson cried. Hadiza let out a yelp that was not unlike a wounded dog, trying to get onto her hands and knees, but then started scratching and pulling at her skin.

            “It burns!” She managed to sob out, and Samson understood, his expression going from one of shock to one of familiar pain. He remembered all too well the burn Hadiza now felt. She was on fire with it, and no amount of ice or water would soothe it. The fever would have to run its course, and there was no balm, no spell, and no cantrip to soothe the bite and burn of the red. Watching Hadiza suffer brought down the full weight of his guilt, tore open old wounds that had only begun to scar on his soul, and he went to her, careful to take her twisting body in his arms, and attempted to quiet her down.

            “Hadiza,” he kept his voice firm, “I need you to listen to me,” Hadiza’s eyes were fever-bright, glinting like the edge of a blade caught in the sun, roving to find him, then shutting in anguish. Samson was kneeling in the floor of her ice, and Hadiza was twisting in his arms, letting out breathless sobs.

            “The corruption is causing this,” he told her, trying to keep his voice calm, “don’t let it control you. You’ve got to fight it, princess,” Hadiza clung to him, “you have got to fight this…when its over, it’ll be over, you’ll be victorious. But right now, I need you to use that brilliant willpower of yours, love. Do that for me, alright?”

            Hadiza mewled out some semblance of compliance, her nails scrabbling at his chest plate as she sought a way to win over the corruption burning in her body. Samson wondered how Corypheus had done it. Had they even truly defeated him? Hadiza twisted and turned, but Samson held her fast, murmuring to her, whispering, trying to calm her but also trying to dredge up that fighting spirit in her he loved too well. This fever, seeing it burn someone he loved, someone whom he knew so intimately, served to remind him why chasing the power of the red was never worth it.

            “Fight it, princess,” he kept murmuring, “fight it, fight it, fight it…”

            There was no one there to keep the time. There was only the shift of the sun from one window of the room to the other as Hadiza’s tears stopped, but Samson knew the weeping resumed within. And finally, when the dinner bell sounded, Hadiza was still, her mewls and whimpers raspy and quiet, her body limp and damp. She lay in his arms, breathing, trying to suck all the air into her lungs, trying to cool the remnants of her fever-ravaged body. Samson had been on his knees, praying to anyone that would listen that she survived the ravages of the burn, and when she looked at him, heavy-lidded with a marrow-deep fatigue, he knew. He pressed a kiss to her sweat-dampened forehead, murmuring to her.

            “You’re fine,” he whispered, “you’re fine…” Thank the Maker. Hadiza was too weak to move, and so he carried her to the bathing chamber, stripping away her damp tunic and running a quick bath for her. If anyone had listed ‘bathing the Inquisitor’ to one of the many duties he would perform as part of his service, he might have laughed it off as a joke. Now, as Hadiza sat quietly and complacently in the lukewarm water, he did not find it to be funny at all.

            “Arm,” he’d order, and Hadiza lifted one arm, a slight tremble to her limbs from the effort. He scrubbed her quickly and efficiently, waiting for her to dunk beneath the water when he scrubbed her hair. He was tender with her, as he would have been with a newborn, and when the deed was done, he helped her out of the bath to get her into a towel. Hadiza was quiet the whole time, her expression suffused with an emptiness and despair that Samson had seen far too often in the faces of his men.

            He’d seen it in himself as well. Saw it often enough in his reflection when the gloaming was filled with memories he’d rather have buried and forgotten. He’d seen it in the faces of the men and women he’d led, their expressions void of anything but the fuel that drove them in battle.

            Hadiza’s was altogether different.

            When he laid her in bed, he was careful, and she was quiet. She didn’t drift off to sleep immediately, and he didn’t strip out of his armor. He merely sat in the chair next to the bed while she lay in eerie silence. Had something broken between them? No, that couldn’t be it. She was frightened, shaken, and worried. This was a new type of attack on her, one she had to fight entirely with willpower. Samson knew he could only offer so much to comfort her. The rest she would have to fight on her own.

            He hoped Dorian’s _somniari_ contact responded soon.

            The red vein had become two.


	9. BOOK II: Dreamscapes

            It was mid-autumn when they received word of the _somniari_. Dorian had been pooling his resources and the Inquisition’s, chasing the threads of rumors to find the source. Dorian took great pains to describe the individual: a youngish lad, hairless in the face, and elf-blooded from the look of him, eyes that held wisdom and knowledge no library had catalogued, and a gentle mien that soothed. From the description, the lad sounded more like some dream-spun figment than an actual person.

            “How did you even come to meet such a person?” Ariadne asked him when Dorian cracked the seal of another letter, indicating another one of their avenues had led to a blind alley. His eyes skimmed the letter, and he scoffed quietly, tossing the folded parchment onto the desk.

            “When Magister Alexius and I were studying the more esoteric arcane arts, he turned up on our doorstep.” Dorian explained, “Strange fellow. Very easily spooked, and apparently had a bad run-in with slavers or some such. Either way, he came seeking instruction where his…Dalish kin had failed to provide for him.” Dorian’s fingertips rummaged through another stack of sealed letters.

            “When he described the nature of his problem, Alexius and I knew what he was. Neither one of us were skilled in such an art, but we knew someone who was. Being the scholar I am, I opted to maintain contact with the boy during his time in the Imperium. I guess it’s for the best that I did, hm?”

            Ariadne crossed her arms, giving him a terse smile.

            “I suppose. It’s very convenient that you happen to know one of the few _somniari_ traipsing about Thedas.” She replied smoothly. Dorian shot her an arch look.

            “That a bit of envy or jealousy I detect, my dear?” He asked, “Oh I’m sure given time your own scouts might have eventually found one. But given how hard they are to find as many of them don’t _want_ to be found…I’d much rather your sister be alive and uncorrupted before the person arrives.” At that, Ariadne’s smile cracked into something much warmer, and she watched him continue to read letters.

            “Aha!” Dorian held up one missive, stamped with an ornate seal and heraldry of what was obviously a nobleman’s letter, “Apparently he was heading south from the Anderfels into Orlais. I suppose I’ll let you take up the reins on this part of the journey, young Spymaster.”

            Ariadne rolled her eyes and began to prepare her ravens.

  

* * *

 

            With the corruption having spread into two veins, Hadiza ceased using her magic. As a consequence, she was also suspended from field missions until further notice, by order of her advisors—mainly Cullen. She hadn’t been happy about it, and had nearly come to blows over it, but over the course of the past two moths, she learned patience. She learned its merit and value as she once more learned to live without the aid of her innate arcane abilities. Samson had Dagna take a look at Hadiza’s arm and Dagna, and after much probing and examination, Dagna confirmed that while the corruption wasn’t from a red lyrium source, it was exhibiting the same symptoms.

            “Interesting,” Dagna murmured, examining the Anchor, which was still mostly green, but the edges of the scarring had taken on a red tinge, “you mentioned that when Corypheus tried to take the Anchor back his magic was red in color, right?”

            “Yes.” Hadiza said firmly, adjusting with a grunt on the hard stone table. Samson stood nearby, arms cross, expression pensive. Dagna poked and prodded Hadiza’s hand, ordering her to hold it open as wide and still as she could.

            “This doesn’t look like the kind of corruption that took the templars,” Dagna was muttering, “but I could be wrong. I need to run a few tests. Have you tried opening a Fade rift?”

            “Dagna, no!” Hadiza hissed and Samson visibly tensed.

            “Why in the Void would she want to do something like that?” Samson demanded with a growl. Dagna shrugged.

            “If the Anchor’s getting corrupted, it might affect her ability to close rift to the Fade, but we can’t be sure unless she opens one, first.”

            “Well I can’t very well do it here!” Hadiza cried. Samson glanced at her sharply.

            “You’re actually considering this?” He asked, “Hadiza what if you _can’t_ seal it back?” Hadiza was quiet a moment, staring harshly at the Anchor on her hand. It had been the sole source of her troubles since first she stumbled out of the Fade, with holes torn into her memory and an angry Cassandra clamoring to kill her. It had been a source of hope too, for a people who had seen everything their beloved faith had preached about in fear and prejudice, falling from the sky in droves. It had been a source of pain—that she told no one about—that had driven her to her knees alone in her quarters in the gloaming hours, weeping as it further bound itself to her flesh and subsequently her soul. Hadiza stared at this piece of the Fade imbued in her skin, and closed her fist.

            “Yes,” she said in a low voice, “I’m considering it. I never got anything done waiting for Corypheus to come and take my head.” She looked up at Samson, her expression hard, “I’ll not wait for his specter to take me too. We’ll leave Skyhold, I’ll tear open the Veil, and we’ll kill whatever comes out, and then seal it back. If I can still seal the rifts, then we have time before my corruption spreads.”

            Samson drew in a slow, deep breath through flared nostrils as Hadiza held his gaze, steady and determined. There seemed to be a silent argument going on between the two of them and Dagna glanced from one to the other, puzzled.

            “If opening a Fade rift is too much trouble,” she said carefully, “I can always run some more tests. Until then, I recommend you don’t use the Anchor for a while.” Hadiza nodded once, and Samson narrowed his eyes. Dagna wrung her hands a bit, trying to steer clear of the burgeoning crossfire between the two lovers.

            “Very well then,” Hadiza said finally, breaking eye contact and looking to Dagna, “I’ll wait.” She turned her gaze back to Samson, “I am patient.” The only response was a low growl from the man, who was very much the wolf the people likened him to. Dagna finished collecting samples of Hadiza’s blood, hair, and a tiny chunk of her left hand, which was repaired with a healing draught, and told her to come back in three days’ time.

* * *

 

            They quarreled that evening.

            “You would have done it, wouldn’t you?” Samson demanded when they returned to her chambers after the evening’s business was concluded. Hadiza kept walking, trying to avoid a conflict. Samson stalked after her, cutting off her path. He’d not let her escape this, not this time.

            “What do you want?” She asked him, “For me to say ‘yes, I would have done it, and I would have enjoyed it’, Raleigh? Is that what you want? For me to feel guilty for trying to find answers by any means necessary?” Samson’s expression passed through anger, guilt, and back to anger.

            “That’s not what I’m saying, Hadiza, and you damn well know it. If you’d gone through with that harebrained idea, then what? You find out you can’t seal rifts, and now we’ve got demons being shit out all over again. Or worse, the backlash of trying to close it kills you.”

            The words hung in the air, and neither said much else. Hadiza looked away.

            “Raleigh, I can’t sit here and do nothing while this corruption spreads. I was _burning_. It was like my body was burning itself from within to without and I wanted to die, wanted to tear my skin off.” Samson froze at the words, his memory jarred. Somewhere in his belongings was a leather-bound tome rife with his own musings. He knew that no one would write of him when he died, and if they did, they’d not have the full truth of it, and so he had taken to writing for himself. And within those worn pages was the memory of when first he donned the red lyrium armor.

            _Had Corypheus not been there to stop me, I would have torn my own skin off_.

            He knew and he didn’t know what was corrupting her, but he didn’t think it was possible.

            “Have you touched or handled red lyrium directly?” He asked her quietly. Hadiza shook her head. “Even when destroying my supply trains of it?” She nodded. Samson sighed. Could any of it have gotten into her by chance? She’d slain Corypheus’ dragon, a single shard was all that was needed, but usually the corruption was a quick and fearsome thing. This slow encroachment was too controlled and too convenient.

            “When Corypheus caught you scrying,” Samson tentatively grasped her slight shoulder, “did he…do anything? Anything that might denote he was casting a spell?”

            Hadiza moved to answer decisively, and then hesitated.

            “He…I don’t know how to describe it. He was talking to me, but his followers could not see me.” Hadiza took a deep breath, remembering. “He touched my mind, somehow, like a surgeon’s blade. He opened my mind like a book. I think he was trying to destroy me that way. He kept scratching at my memories, kept taunting me with the threat of erasing them. He told me if I survived I’d regret the day I dared to challenge him. And then you…”

            “Smote you.” Samson finished grimly, “Alright. That doesn’t explain much, but it might have something to do with this. Promise me you won’t try to open a Fade rift.” His eyes were hard, and Hadiza found no reason to look away. But she didn’t speak.

            “Hadiza, promise me.” He said firmly. Hadiza drew herself up a little and nodded.

            “I promise.”

 

* * *

 

 

            Feynriel had grown in the time he last let himself be seen. He had grown in power and in manhood. The startled innocence of the youth who had been so fearful of his own magic had been replaced entirely by the temerity of a man who knew his own power, but there was the gravitas of wisdom as well. His hair, an ashen blond, was bound in a single braid at his nape, and when he passed beneath the raised portcullis of Skyhold, autumn had gripped the keep. Braziers were lit within to keep the drafty place warm as the wind carried with it the promise of a bitter winter. Food stores were inventoried and preserves were made. The leaves turned and bit by bit, fell from the trees to cover the grounds.

            He was received by Dorian directly, and guided into the keep with no fanfare. Once inside, Dorian sought to take him to the library, where Samson and Aja were already waiting. Hadiza was holed up in the war room with her advisors, sending out forces to do what could be done while she was bound to the keep until her health improved. Aja and Samson were engaged in a quick game of Wicked Grace when Dorian and Feynriel arrived. Aja jerked her chin and Samson looked over his shoulder.

            “Maker’s shitting breath,” he muttered in disbelief, getting up from his chair. Dorian blinked.

            “I see you’ve no care for decorum when receiving a guest, Samson,” Dorian drawled, “good to know. This is—“

            “Feynriel.” Samson said and Dorian’s brow wrinkled in consternation.

            “Yes,” he remarked slowly, “how did you…?”

            “I went through quite a bit of trouble to get this lad out of Kirkwall.” Samson said curtly, never breaking eye contact with the boy who was now a man. Feynriel gave a small smile.

            “I was hiding from the templars,” he explained, his voice deep and melodious, “and my mother sought to send me to the Circle, and the Dalish said they had no one to train me in my particular…field. And so I went to Tevinter.” Samson shook his head.

            “Exact place I was trying to keep you from when I found out you got roped in by slavers, boy. Good to know you’re still around.” He muttered with a wry smile. Dorian seemed rather nonplussed. It was pure chance that Samson would know one of the few known _somniari_ in Thedas. Of course, since his joining the Inquisition, he was very suspicious of _chance_ of late.

            “Where is she?” Feynriel asked without preamble. Aja narrowed her eyes.

            “Dorian,” she said calmly, “have you explained to this young man that _she_ is completely unaware that we plan to force her into the Fade?” Dorian smiled smugly.

            “No, dear lady, I was going to extend that honor to you.” Aja’s lip curled.

            “How kind.” She said tightly. Samson crossed his arms, stealing a glance at Feynriel. One would almost swear he was nervous. Feynriel finally met his gaze.

            “It’s alright, you know,” he said with a gentle smile, “I know you didn’t mean for me to fall into trouble all those years ago. You’re a good man, Samson. Always done right by mages, from what I’ve learned.” Samson looked increasingly unsure of whether he wanted to be in the room or not, and so he cleared his throat and grumbled something about it not being that big of a deal.

            “Let’s get this over with,” Aja said crossly, already heading toward the stairs. Samson watched them go, still wondering. It gave him pause, only because he had not expected to see Feynriel ever again. The Champion—Merishka—had freed him and sent him away, but Samson had never received word about any of the mages he’d helped escape Kirkwall’s oppressive shadow. He smiled to himself, remembering how Hadiza had indicated the new mage tower she’d had constructed upon her arrival in Skyhold. There, the rebel mages had settled. Some had since left for the College of Enchanters to the west, but others—mostly apostates and a few former Circle charges—had opted to stay and work with the Inquisition. Hadiza hadn’t said much beyond that, but he knew what she wanted him to see. Some of those apostates had once been holed up in Kirkwall, hiding from vigilant templars.

            Some of those apostates that opted to remain were the ones he freed.

            Samson smiled wider and followed the rest down the stairs. 

* * *

 

            When Aja told Hadiza what was planned, Hadiza nearly burst into flames, as was expected.

            “You didn’t even bother to ask me if I was alright with this?” She practically screamed. Samson was the only other person aside from Aja brave enough to stand in the same room. He’d seen Hadiza angry before; he was fire resistant. Aja crossed her arms and sighed.

            “Look, had we told you, would you have agreed to it?” Aja asked calmly.

            “No!” Hadiza shot back. Aja’s brows went up. Hadiza hesitated, and then huffed out an angry breath, rife with flame. Samson thought it was a cute cantrip any other day, her mimicking a dragon and all. Right now it was downright terrifying, mostly because they weren’t sure how much of her magic was backfiring.

            “Yes.” She hissed, quieter this time. Aja glanced over her shoulder.

            “Satisfied?” She called. Feynriel and Dorian ascended the steps and came into view. Hadiza visibly calmed, the preternatural glow of her skin ebbing into muted thing, her eyes still fever bright, the two veins of pulsating red stark against her skin. Feynriel glanced once at it and narrowed his eyes.

            “Dorian,” he turned to the other mage, “we will need a lot of lyrium. She must be induced into a dream state. Both of us.” Dorian nodded.

            “Oh we’ve plenty to spare, Feynriel, not to worry,” he said cheerily, “shall I prepare the draught, now, or is there some sort of pre-Fade chat the two of you need to have before you take the plunge?” Aja smiled despite herself, but Hadiza didn’t look too amused. Quite frankly, neither did Samson.

            “Just get the blue, Pavus,” Samson growled, “and let them sort the shit out amongst themselves. Sooner we get started, sooner we can fix this.” Worry made him agitated, and agitation made him impatient. Dorian leveled him with a look; knowing and shrewd, but said nothing.

            “Very well, then,” he sketched a mocking salute, “I shall return anon with the blue, and hopefully your rabid general will be a little more at ease for it.” When he left, Samson gestured to Aja and she came to him.

            “Be honest,” he muttered, “you think this shit will work?” Aja pulled a face.

            “You’re asking me like I’m some kind of fucking mage, Samson,” she retorted, then glanced back at her sister and Feynriel who were talking in hushed whispers, “then again, it’s worth a shot, right? We don’t know what the fuck’s corrupting her. Dagna already said it’s not the red shit. You think she might be possessed?”

            “Don’t even fuckin’ joke, Trevelyan,” Samson growled in warning, “don’t even consider it.”

            “But we _have_ to consider it, don’t we?” She shot back, “We have to consider the fact that she may have a…an _occupant_.” Samson’s expression was a rictus caught between anger and fear, immediately thinking that if Hadiza became an abomination— _no_. He wouldn’t even consider that avenue. They would save her any way they could. Aja watched him, measuring his reaction, sucking her teeth idly.

            “Fine, then,” she acceded, “I won’t say it, but you’ve been thinking it since you first saw it.”

            She was right, of course. Samson had suspected possession at first, but had immediately put it to the back of his mind. Hadiza was strong enough to resist common demons and spirits from tempting her. This corruption had somewhat to do with him or Corypheus, he was certain. Had she handled his red lyrium armor? He recalled their battle. No, she wore gloves in battle. It had been Aja that restrained him, Ariadne providing bow support, and Hadiza had struck the blow that took him down. Without thinking, his tongue poked at the gap where one of his molars was missing. She’d hit him hard enough to knock it out. But not once had she ever touched his armor.

            So, Corypheus, then.

            “Hey,” Hadiza’s voice pulled him from the pensive maelstrom of his thoughts, “you alright?” Samson couldn’t bring himself to smile at her in full, so his mouth twitched. Hadiza’s expression shifted from contentment to concern and he reached up to brush a lock of hair behind her ear.

            “ _I’m_ fine, princess,” he told her, “you need to be preparing for your…journey.” At that, Hadiza nudged him. Dorian returned, bearing a crate filled with lyrium vials and a single chalice. Hadiza drew in a breath.

            “Just like a Harrowing…” She murmured, more to herself than for anyone else. Samson felt his blood run cold.

            That was what he was afraid of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter marks the beginning of the second arc of the story, most of which will shift to Hadiza's perspective as she enters the Fade to find answers. I hope I didn't lose you guys. Due to the fact that this story is a post-game one, the plot will expand beyond the restrictions that were on Post Tenebras Lux due to that taking place during the events of the game. What you're getting is an original adventure. Good old fashion sword and sorcery fun, I suppose. As always, leave a comment on your way out. :)


	10. Shifting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feynriel and Hadiza walk the Fade and find something truly confounding.

            It was just as well they began the ritual early.

            Samson was tense—they all were—but Hadiza’s words clung to him like an ague; a chill in his bones that would not abate, even as the braziers were lit and heated the room. Dorian had prepared the lyrium and Samson was once more privately impressed with the mage’s vast knowledge. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised, given how much time Dorian spent with his nose in a book and a goblet of wine on hand. Still, the man’s vast well of arcane knowledge and his contacts were invaluable. It occurred to him in that moment that he was the only active templar in the room, and Aja, while a warrior of considerable strength and skill, was not equipped for the pitfalls of this situation.

            “Hey,” Aja muttered as if reading his thoughts, “she’s still a Harrowed mage, even though the Circles have been dissolved. She’s done this before and passed. Stop fidgeting.” Samson shot her a dark look and Aja merely returned it with a knowing smirk and a shrug. He could say it was the lyrium thirst that made him edgy, but he’d only just recently had a drink to bolster his strength. It quelled the pain in his gut; along with the concoction Dorian had made for him to combat his ailments.

            He almost wished it _was_ the thirst that made his heart race and his body ache.

            Instead, he focused on Hadiza and Feynriel who were preparing to drink. Unlike in the Circle, where the mage was simply left alone, they made themselves comfortable.

            “You drink first,” Feynriel instructed, “and wait for me in the Fade. I will soon follow.” Hadiza nodded, and Dorian handed her the large chalice, which glowed blue, casting her face in stark relief. She met his eyes over the rim of the chalice, and he saw her small smile. Samson wanted to smile back, but couldn’t fix his face to do so properly. Her smile grew wider at his attempt and he growled low in his throat. She didn’t need him to speak for her to see the message writ on his face: _get on with it, princess_.

            She brought the chalice to her lips, and tipped it back, drinking the lyrium.

            Her eyes burned blue, and Feynriel quickly took the chalice from her as she fell backward onto the cushioning support of soft pillows, limp as if someone had drugged her. She was out cold, and Samson could make out the glowing remnants of lyrium on her lips. Feyriel set the chalice aside, and helped arrange Hadiza in a more comfortable position. Then, he took up the chalice and downed the lyrium. Dorian caught it as Feynriel laid back, eyes glowing before he shut them.

            “This is so strange,” Aja remarked, “is that what you fucking mages do to enter the Fade?” Dorian set the empty chalice on the small end table next to the couch.

            “Lady Trevelyan, are you suggesting we find a way to breach the Fade physically?” Dorian asked sardonically, “After being in it one would think you’d find this a much safer avenue.”

            “I wouldn’t fucking know, Dorian,” Aja shot back, “only time I’ve ever been in the Fade was physically. Wouldn’t want to take that trip again any time soon.”

            Samson watched them both, saw something pass over their faces; a shared fear and pain, perhaps. What had they seen in the Fade? Neither one of them spoke of it, but in the year gone by, Samson had heard the tales.

            The Champion of Kirkwall had sacrificed herself in the Fade to save Hadiza and her squad, he knew. It was a loss felt by many, and Samson wondered if Hadiza would meet the Champion there in the dream-version of the Fade, wondered if the Champion had found some way against all possible odds to survive, but he doubted it. Merishka had been a stubborn and tough plant in Kirkwall, nigh impossible to uproot, but she wasn’t invincible. He knew she was dead, and he wished he didn’t know that.

            Instead, he focused on Hadiza and Feynriel, his templar protocols summoned up on instinct, watching for any signs of possession, vigilant and dutiful. He did not like Harrowings, and he counted himself blessed to have never had to strike a definitive blow at a failed Harrowing, although he’d seen his share of them. Still, this was not a Harrowing, which made it worse. There was no telling what would happen to the two mages in their Fade-state. There was no leashed demon to test them and find their minds heavily fortified, their willpower obstinate. If something happened it would be up to him to dispel and dispatch.

            And the thought horrified him.

            _Figures,_ He thought to himself, _I never once had to strike a mage down during a Harrowing in the Order. Now the Inquisitor decides to enter the Fade and I might have to do one outside the Order. Andraste you sure got a sense of humor._

“So,” Dorian said cheerily, “whose hungry? I heard the cooks baked peach pies.”

 

* * *

 

             After being in the Fade in her corporeal body, the dream-state seemed eerily tame, but no less haunting. The sickly green glow of the place was still vivid, and everything was still moist and fetid, but the sound…the sound was muted, just like in her Harrowing. The sound was muted and off, and the Black City was far once more. When she’d been here physically, it had been close enough that she felt perhaps she could walk to it.

            Hadiza turned a slow circuit around, and laughed to herself at her idiocy.

            “As if I could figure out _where_ in the Fade I am,” she said to herself, chortling in a self-deprecating way, “this is such bullshit.” Her voice didn’t carry far, and seemed to fall flat just arm’s length out in front of her. She wondered why the dream-state was so different from the corporeal one. She wondered too much about the wrong things it seemed. Hadiza glanced down at her hands, then checked her body for weapons. It had been a long time since she’d entered the Fade in her dreams.

            “It’s different, isn’t it?” Feynriel’s voice was near and startled her into nearly leaping from her skin. She turned, finding him standing in the patch of monotonous green, looking as calm and serene as if they were standing in a forest. Hadiza pursed her lips and frowned. She was sure he wasn’t a spirit, but having him share her dream like this was awkward and…intimate.

            “You are said to be able to shape the Fade to your liking,” Hadiza said nervously, “any way you can shape this into something a bit more pleasant?” Feynriel tilted his head, his eyes bright, and his slight smile a touch too eager. Hadiza felt her hackles raise in alarm.

            “And what will I get in return for this favor?” Feynriel asked and Hadiza _knew_.

            “Demon.” She whispered fiercely, almost to the point of laughing. Of all the things to happen, one would think demons would steer clear of her and yet here she was, facing off with a demon that took the form of the dream walker.

            “It won’t work here, you know,” the demon said in Feynriel’s voice, making to approach her. Hadiza knew that if she reacted in fear, it would win, so she stood her ground, reaching for her staff, “you may have the advantage out there, but here, you are just another silly mage grasping at power.”

            Hadiza wanted to laugh and that was exactly what she did. She cackled, loudly and obnoxiously. She went into a fit of hysterics, leaning on her staff until tears of mirth leaked from her eyes.

            The demon’s expressions were off, as if it were not used to wearing a face capable of emotion, so it came off looking perplexed and slightly perturbed.

            “I know the Anchor doesn’t work,” Hadiza finally said breathlessly, “I just…this is all so silly, isn’t it? I mean…we’re inside of my dreams, and you just approached me wearing the face of someone I just met. Is…is this your first time?” She began to laugh again, wheezing.

            The demon snarled, and Feynriel’s face morphed, half-in and half-out of the demon that wore it, so the snarl was exaggerated, baring sharp fangs too large for a human mouth, wrinkling the skin in the wrong places, and one of the eyes being eaten away by an inky darkness, leaving only a pinprick of ember-red in the center. Hadiza didn’t even flinch, but she did quiet her laughter.

            “Maker!” She exclaimed, running her fingers through her hair, “I suppose there’s a first time for everything, demon. So I’m going to ask you some questions.”

            “You dare?” It demanded, once again wearing Feynriel’s face, “You speak to me as if you have some kind of power over me.” Hadiza shrugged, turned, and began to walk up the single path before her. The demon followed.

            “Have it your way,” she said flippantly, waving her hand in a gesture of dismissal, “I am not here to consort with demons. I’ve more important matters at hand.” The demon followed after her.

            “I could help, you know,” it told her, “I could help you find whatever it is you seek.” Hadiza made a showy gesture of yawning, and that only seemed to goad the demon’s frustration. She had been Harrowed, yes, but she had also walked the Fade physically. This was but mere child’s play and the temptations of demons paled in comparison to what she already had been offered.

            The environment began to shift, giving both the demon and Hadiza pause.

            “What…?” The demon was confused for a moment, and then it wasn’t, screaming in pain as it began to wither and die, shriveling into the shifting landscape. Hadiza watched, oddly calm and unfeeling, blinking only when the landscape righted itself. Feynriel stood in the demon’s place.

            “You resisted it rather easily, Inquisitor,” he said with a smile, “I suppose given your experiences, this is a pale imitation of the real thing.” Hadiza watched him a moment, and Feynriel gazed back. She shrugged.

            “When you walk the Fade for real, it is far more destitute and foreboding. Here, at least, when you are aware you are dreaming, it is much easier to resist. I can take you to the Fade sometime if you’d like.” Hadiza smiled at him, feral and amused. Feynriel laughed.

            “I think I’ll have to respectfully decline, Inquisitor,” he said, holding up his hands, “for now, let us begin our search for what ails you.” At that, Hadiza sighed, weary at the thought. The Fade was _endless_ and the chances of them finding the source of her ailments were slim at best. She glanced around. Feynriel had shaped her perception, and so the appearance was that of Skyhold. It was strange to see it thus, empty and abandoned yet it looked well tended. She glanced around, then back to Feynriel.

            “You think this will make it easier to find the problem.” She stated and Feynriel said nothing, merely began to walk.

            “I suppose it would be easier to start with familiar territory,” he told her as they left the side room to enter the main hall, “rather than attempt to navigate the raw Fade itself. Ah, see here…” Feynriel pointed to the stone floors and Hadiza came up short with a gasp. The cracks in the stone were glowing with angry red veins, crawling along the walls like sickened ivy. At the rise of the dais, the Inquisition thrown was _occupied_. Hadiza’s eyes narrowed.

            “Who is…?” She turned but Feynriel was gone, “…Damnit.” She muttered and began to walk carefully toward the dais. The figure was hooded and cloaked, sitting in absolute stillness, but as Hadiza came closer, its head turned slowly, and darkness gazed back from beneath the cowl. Hadiza paused at the base of the steps.

            “Who are you?” She demanded, lifting her chin. The figure’s cowl-clad head dipped, and two gloved hands gripped the arms of the throne and pushed. _Tall_ , was Hadiza’s initial thought, _very tall_. The figure did not speak, bringing up its hands to push back the cowl. Hadiza’s face scrunched into a perplexed frown. It was a man, olive-skinned and severe-looking. There was a scar along his lip that gave him the appearance of a sneer, and his dark eyes limned her in a baleful glare. Hadiza returned the glare with one of her own, only her eyes were lit with defiance. This was _her_ mind, after all.

            “I would ask you the same question,” he said, and his voice was deep and resonant, bowed with the weight of an unfathomable wisdom, rife with the knowledge of ages long since regulated to the footnotes and pages of Thedosian history. The man who stood before her was old before her ancestors were young, and yet his face held the echo of a youth forced into maturity by circumstance. Hadiza hesitated in her answer, feeling stripped of her usual bravado.

            “Names hold power,” she said in a tremulous voice, willing the steel back into it, “and I’d not give up mine so easily. Who are you?”

            He laughed at her, and the sound plucked at her nerves, hooking into her, as if he attempted to lift skin from the bone. She grimaced. Then, he began to approach, slow and methodical, until he stood before her.

            “Perhaps that answer is what you are supposed to discover for yourself, Inquisitor.” He sneered, and walked past her. Hadiza did not follow, narrowing her eyes at his retreating back, and then she looked down. The red veins in the floor glowed brighter with each step he took. She took a deep breath.

            “Wait!” She shouted, and ran toward him. He hadn’t stopped but he did slow his pace until she caught up, “What is this? Is this red lyrium?”

            The man tipped his gaze to her, and she swore there was some semblance of a smirk twisting the corner of his scarred mouth. He said nothing, and kept walking.

            “Corypheus.” She muttered, “He has something to do with this.”

            _That_ gave the man pause, and he turned to look at her, his gaze heavy with a brooding calculation as he considered her as one might consider an insect. Hadiza gazed back, a spell hovering at the edges of her mind within easy reach.

            “That is not a name I am familiar with,” he said slowly, “but I like the sound of it. You may address me thus if you desire. Do not expect an answer, though.” He turned and began walking again. The Fade shifted again, making him stop. Hadiza smiled smugly.

            “That was not a polite trick,” Feynriel stepped forward, “and I believe the lady asked you a question.” Hadiza crossed her arms, raising her brows expectantly. The man—whom she was absolutely certain was the source of her problem—looked agitated, but he shut his eyes, chuckling.

            “A _somniari_ ,” he said, amused and sardonic, “I did not think to see your like in the Fade ever again. Tell me, how is it you came by such power?” Feynriel did not answer, but kept a bland smile on his face. Hadiza wondered what he was playing at. Was this man a demon of some sort?

            “The same as any mage, I suppose,” Feynriel answered dryly, “but that’s neither here nor there.” The man grinned briefly and then turned his gaze back to Hadiza.

            “Sethius.” He told her and Hadiza did not like the look of his smile, “Remember that name, little mageling.” Then he was simply gone. Hadiza was not sure if she blinked or the Fade had simply willed him out of existence but he was gone. Feynriel’s brows knit in perplexity.

            “Interesting,” he murmured to himself, “never seen a demon do that before.” Then, he looked up at Hadiza, “Shall we be getting back? I believe that creature to be the source of your problem, but I do not know how.” Hadiza nodded wordlessly, her head spinning.

            _Sethius_.

* * *

             When Hadiza opened her eyes it was well past nightfall. The room was dark save for the braziers and the fireplace being lit, and Samson sat stiffly at her head, clearly dozing, heavy-lidded and exhausted. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, moving to sit up. Samson was immediately roused as she and Feynriel sat up and blinked away the dream that had been the Fade.

            “Oh good, they’re back,” Dorian said cheerily, “I was beginning to think all this food would go to waste. You’re quite lucky, you know, the cooks were very generous with the meat pies this evening.” Hadiza glanced around, stretching and yawning.

            “How ya feelin’, princess?” Samson queried and Hadiza gave him a weary smile. He returned it, tugging a lock of her hair gently. Feynriel, having grown accustomed to Fade-walking, was up as if he’d merely taken a simple powernap, already picking over the food that awaited them.

            “Hey!” Samson snapped, “So did you find what you were looking for or not?” He helped Hadiza to her feet, steadying her as she swayed uneasily. Feynriel glanced back at the two of them, his expression punctilious as he took a bite of an apple.

            “Ask her. She’s the one half-possessed.”

            Hadiza’s eyes went wide as Samson let out a sputtered swear.

            “You wanna run that by me again?” Samson asked with a warning note to his tone. Feynriel was completely calm as he chewed.

            “She is half-possessed,” he waited for Samson’s swear to come out and then continued, “meaning she has someone encroaching on her, but not fully possessing her. This would account for the veins in her arm. However…” Feynriel finished the apple quickly, his appetite prodigious after such a long trek through the Fade. Hadiza felt her knees give way and leaned against her bed, feeling sick.

            “I don’t think it’s a demon…or even a spirit. It’s something, though.” Feynriel finished, and Samson glanced at Dorian who for once was without words. Hadiza felt her mouth watering, felt her stomach quivering, and she ran to her chamber pot and leaned over as she began to retch. Having not eaten in several hours all that came up with clear, viscous liquid, burning her mouth and throat. Dorian was immediately by her side with a cup of water. Hadiza gulped it down, gasping and panting.

            “You gotta give me answers, kid,” Samson said, not moving and assured that Dorian had matters well in hand with Hadiza, “is it a demon or not?”

            “Still thinking like a templar,” Feynriel shook his head, “it’s not a demon or a spirit. It is something else. I guess if you want to paint in broad strokes it would be classified as a spirit.” Samson rolled his eyes. It was all the same to him at this point. Hadiza had something trying to take over her body and he wanted it out. Feynriel wasn’t giving them answers as to how to do that.

            “How do we get it out of her?” Samson demanded and Feynriel looked at Hadiza, who was caught between worry, terror, and absolute despair.

            “I’m a _somniari_ , Samson,” he said sadly, “I can only shape the Fade. I can’t expel spirits. But…but I think there are mages who specialize in that…right, Lady Trevelyan?”

            Aja stood up from her seat, having not spoken the entire time, merely observing.

            “Right. That is why I wrote to some people when Dorian set out search teams to find you. In the event that you could not help, I think I know someone who can point us in the right direction.”

            “No,” Hadiza groaned, “you didn’t…” Aja gave a half-smile.

            “I had to, Diza,” she replied, “it was going to happen sooner or later, but this isn’t something you can let your grudge get in the way of. He can help us.”

            “Who?” Samson asked. Hadiza sighed, running her hands over her face.

            “Bann Trevelyan,” she muttered, “our father. We have to go to Ostwick, don’t we?”


	11. Silverite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mission, a blade, and a whisper.

            For a while, no one said anything.

            “Hadiza, what the fuck is in Ostwick?” Samson asked her. Hadiza glanced down at her left arm. Three veins…there were three. She pulled down her sleeve quickly and swallowed.

            “Answers, apparently. Aja, can you please explain?” Aja was watching her, her expression unreadable but watchful. She wasn’t smiling, and then her expression turned grim.

            “Ariadne and I began to discuss the possibilities that you may be possessed,” Aja began and Hadiza tried not to flinch, and instead tensed, “so I asked her to dig up some answers as to whom would be best-suited to help you. The mages here aren’t as well-versed in the subject as I expected, but father surprisingly seems to have connections, or at least I think he does.” Hadiza glanced at Feynriel, and he shrugged, content to listen for now. She turned her gaze back to Aja, prompting her to continue.

            “He wrote back to us, saying to come to Ostwick. It’s not something that can be explained in an exchange of letters, but he thinks it will help,” Aja clapped Feynriel on the shoulder, “however, seeing as how our friend here has somewhat identified the problem, I think we should let him continue to monitor your Fade-wanderings, eh?”

            “Sounds like a plan to me,” Samson said, “but why Ostwick? For fuck’s sake that’s a bit of a journey, ain’t it?”

            “Aye,” Aja agreed with a feral grin, “but we’ve dragged our collective asses over much of Thedas, already. What’s a caravan trip and a boat ride to all that?” To that, there was no answer, and so Hadiza merely sighed and ran her hands over her face. She had not been back to Ostwick since she left for the Conclave. Maker! That had been ages ago, it felt like, and now her father was calling her home because he apparently had answers. Hadiza dreaded what awaited her in the halls of the Trevelyan Estate.

            “Alright,” she said at last, “then I guess we prepare to go to Ostwick, I suppose. How soon can we leave?” Aja hesitated, biting her lower lip in thought before walking to one of the balcony doors and opening it. A cold wind passed through, making the flames in the braziers dance and waver before she shut it.

            “The Waking Sea is unforgivable even in the warm months, and winter will be upon us soon, making the seas treacherous even for the most seasoned crew and stalwart ships. We’d be better waiting the season out before traveling…unless of course you want to brave getting shipwrecked?” Aja turned back to the assembled crew, grinning again. Hadiza shook her head.

            “Can we risk that?” Dorian asked, “If this possession is an encroachment, can we risk waiting a season before seeking aid? Surely there’s somewhat we can do to ensure our darling Inquisitor does not become every templar’s nightmare…” He smirked at Samson who merely bared his teeth in return. He’d be a fool not to admit his own fear of what Hadiza might become if this _infection_ was allowed to take over her body, but he never got on being a templar by being afraid to act, or being open to alternative actions. For now, he’d defer to the only seasoned sailor in the room. No point in risking their lives needlessly just to cross the damn seas. It was already Firstfall; what was four more months?

* * *

             They waited, of course, and Feynriel opted to stay and help monitor Hadiza’s dreams for any abnormalities. Samson told him not to exert himself, but Feynriel insisted that this was imperative. His gift was one rarely sought out, and the opportunity to do some good with it was more than he had ever dared to hope for.

            “Aside,” he said one evening in the tavern as they shared drinks, “I can see how much she means to you.” Samson said nothing in response, and merely grunted, hiding his expression in the wide mouth of his ale tankard. Feynriel was right, of course, Samson cherished Hadiza, and to see her in a state in which he was unable to help her was somewhat agonizing. In fact, he was angry because he was out of his element in this. Her fever had passed, but the veins troubled him. He took to training with the men, aiding Cullen in keeping the Inquisition’s military sharp. With Hadiza grounded from field missions, he took to leaving Skyhold with a team to accomplish what they could. Detaining rogue templars in the wild, untamed places of Thedas; apostates living in fear, unaware that it was relatively safe to come from hiding; and of course, the Tranquil.

            So many Tranquil had been abandoned in the wake of the war and Divine Victoria’s ascension. Samson opted to bring them back to Skyhold, where at least they’d be safe from harassment and the like. He knew something was wrong from the way Hadiza observed the steady trickle of the Tranquil mages into the keep, the way she shifted uneasily as they greeted her in their toneless voices, asking where they could be of the most assistance. When she told Josephine to handle it and made for the library below the keep, Samson followed.

            She was leaned over the large desk, shoulders rigid, and her arms shuddering.

            “Hadiza,” he ventured and she turned, startled, but trying in vain to regain her composure, “what happened out there? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

            “No,” she said quickly, “just looking for one, I suppose.” Samson’s brows went up, the unspoken question settling between them.

            “This got something to do with all the Tranquil we’ve brought in?” He asked her. Hadiza nodded wordlessly. Samson came to her, and gently eased an arm around her shoulders. She took a deep breath and sighed.

            “My Circle was intact when I left for the Conclave,” she explained, “but there was another mage; a friend of mine. He tried to escape twice, and they made him Tranquil. I don’t know what happened to my Circle while I was busy running the Inquisition. I don’t know what happened to him.” Samson understood. He’d left Maddox in the Circle because at the time that was the safest place he could be, but when the Gallows turned into a bloodbath, he’d been frantic about getting him out of there. Let the rest of them sort it out, Maddox had deserved better than to die at the hands of templars looking for an excuse to kill mages.

            “Was it bad?” He asked her, “Up at Ostwick, I mean. You never talk about it, but I assume it was as bad as any other Circle.” Hadiza leaned into him, mindful of his armor.

            “I was lucky to be spared the worst of it,” she replied, bitterness souring the tone of her voice, “but others were not. I worked in the healer’s ward, tending to the mages who were not so lucky…and the templars as well. I do not think the Circles serve any purpose, Samson, other than to cage us out of fear. And the knight-commander was negligent in his duties of protecting the mages from abuse. Samuel—my friend—had been in that Circle since he was six years old.”

            “Maker’s shitting breath,” Samson muttered, “no wonder he wanted out.”

            Hadiza smiled tersely in response. “He wanted me to go with him, but I couldn’t. I was scared of what would happen to me if we were caught.”

            Samson gave her a light squeeze.

            “I was also scared of what would happen if we succeeded. I couldn’t go home, and I’d never been outside of Ostwick before.”

            “And now you’re running the Inquisition,” Samson gave her a warm smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes, “so you want me to see if I can track him down for you?” Hadiza pulled away, looking up at him.

            “Could you? His phylactery…I don’t know if it was destroyed or sent to the Spire. Shit, I don’t even know what became of _mine_ when I left. But…if I described him to you, could you find him?” Samson thought about it. The chances of finding the boy were slim at best, but he wagered that someone might have had use for Tranquil mages in Ostwick, perhaps as book keepers and the like. He wondered and hoped that was the case.

            “Well this is more suited to Ghost’s expertise, right?” He countered, “We could ask her to send out a search party specifically for rescuing stray Tranquil mages that need protect—“ He didn’t finish because Hadiza threw her arms around his neck and kissed him all over his face. Samson held her steady, and after laughing, kissed her back.

            If they could give other Tranquil mages a better life than what Maddox got, he’d count that as a victory. After calming her down, they returned to the main hall, and Hadiza resumed her duties. Samson saw something unknotted in her that evening, but the pain was still there and he knew that she hadn’t told him everything.

            _Doesn’t matter_ , he thought, _it’s in the past. We fix what we can right now._

* * *

 

            Samson petitioned Cullen for permission to hunt down rogue templars—both corrupted and sane—and the Commander, at first, was adamantly against it. They quarreled in his office one autumn afternoon over it.

            “The Inquisition is not a damned hunting party, Samson,” Cullen flung the words with precision, and Samson curled his lip, “I can’t just send the army out to round people up for existing.”

            “Why not, Commander?” Samson demanded, “No different than when we were sent to round up apostates and new mages coming into their powers. There’s templars out there, not all of them abiding by the Order’s rules. No Circles, no policies, no accountability. Is the Inquisition supposed to let that stand?” Cullen’s nose wrinkled, and he wanted to sneer at him, but he knew he was right. Still, pride dictated that he press on.

            “That is not the Inquisition’s purpose, Samson,” he argued, “we cannot take in every criminal or stray we come across. Our problems are much larger than that.” Samson threw up his hands.

            “Your _problem_ is that it’s been over a year—going on _two_ —since Corypheus’ defeat and there are people who have suffered for the decisions of the Inquisition. Folks who have been burned out of their homes, mages with no Circles to protect them from templars who would use them as receivers of their anger.”

            “Is that what this is about?” Cullen demanded, tossing his quill onto the desk and pacing, “You bear a grudge against the Order still? Was the Inquisitor’s mercy not enough for you?” Samson didn’t miss the way Cullen worded his retort, or the way he limned the word ‘mercy’ with a coat of venom. So, even now he would begrudge Hadiza her decision? Samson’s eyes narrowed slightly, but then he opted to laugh instead. Cullen was deliberately trying to goad him, and for what? Out of lingering envy? Jealousy?

            “You think I’ve got it out of the Order, do you?” Samson asked, “Cullen, this isn’t something I’m asking because I want to see the Order dismantled. I’m asking because there are real people out there being affected by the decisions you and yours make so casually and flippantly in that fancy war room of yours. Or maybe you _forgot_.”

            Silence answered him. Cullen and Samson stared at one another for a long while, white lines of fury forming at the corner of Cullen’s scarred mouth. Samson merely glared back, unblinking. He’d stared into his own abyss before, and Cullen would not intimidate him. Not in this.

            Cullen shut his eyes, turning his head away.

            “What happened to you, Rutherford?” Samson’s tone was gentler this time, “You never used to be so damned stubborn about things like this. You used to want to help people who actually needed it. And it’s not like…it’s not like Meredith’s here peering over your shoulder.” Cullen opened his eyes at the mention of the knight-commander’s name, as if her specter were there in the room with them, a lingering eidolon that refused to abate. Samson felt it too, like an old wound that was still sore deep down. Meredith had hurt them both in different ways, but it was only now he understood the damage that Meredith had truly done.

            “She isn’t here anymore, Cullen,” Samson approached him, “you can do the right thing and not be punished for it. We both can.” Cullen hesitated, drawing in a deep breath, before sighing.

            “I’m sorry, Samson,” he said quietly, “truly. I just…I feel like I should have done more to help you. Perhaps had I been more proactive…you wouldn’t have done the things you did.” Samson drew back.

            “No amount of help could have changed my course at the time, Rutherford. What’s done is done. You were so far up Meredith’s ass there was no helping you. Only her turning on the Champion was enough to shake you out of whatever lyrium-daze the Order had you under.” Samson resisted the urge to examine Cullen’s face, like he used to do back in Kirkwall, making sure the man was sleeping at night, making sure the talking in his sleep was reduced only to talking and not screams. Meredith had nurtured Cullen’s pain; the same way the Order had nurtured hers. It was a wheel, Samson realized; the whole damned system was a wheel. She had been grooming Cullen to take her place, the same way she had been groomed. Samson realized that he never would have stood a chance.

            “I’m trying to make up for it, Cullen,” Samson told him honestly, “I am. Ain’t no amount of good deeds I can do to make up for the shit I’ve pulled. The dead will stay dead, and there are folks who still want my head on a pike.” He leveled a feral smirk at Cullen, “Present company included.”

            Cullen frowned. “Well, you’re not entirely wrong. But…but I’d be wrong if I did not say you have done good work during your time here…and you’ve been nothing but cooperative. You at least kept your word to her.”

            Samson frowned.

            “No, I kept my word because I have no reason to lie, Rutherford. Don’t think she was the reason I decided to do right by the people I’ve hurt. Just like she wasn’t the reason you decided to break your lyrium leash. You’re still clean, right?” Cullen nodded slowly. Samson snorted. He was not sure if he envied Cullen or pitied him. He still took the blue, but the only purpose it served was to extend his life a little more. He was barely outpacing the corruption most days, and using his templar abilities had become less of an occurrence of late. But if he stopped, his life would be forfeit, and there was no telling when that number would be up.

            “I’ll allow you a coterie of men to accompany you on this endeavor,” Cullen said at last and Samson met his gaze sharply, “but I can’t promise you they’ll follow you, Samson, you know this.” Samson grinned.

            “Ain’t nothing like hard-living on the road and life-threatening situations to bind men’s loyalties. I was a general, Rutherford. I know what I’m about.”

            “Then why not send the Ghost?” Cullen asked acidly. Samson let out a bark of laughter.

            “You want ‘em brought to justice, Cullen? Or you want ‘em dead? Ghost isn’t exactly known for her mercy.”

            Cullen was going to reply but looked down, smiling with a chuckle. He was right, and that was a foolish question. Samson smirked.

            “Hard to believe they’re fuckin’ related, isn’t it?”

            “Yes!” Cullen said quickly, “I mean…it’s just…” He dropped his voice, _sotto voce_ , “How are the three of them related at all?” Samson shrugged, heading back toward the door.

            “Got me there, Commander,” he replied with a laugh, “just be glad it’s the gentle one that’s running the Inquisition.” He left and Cullen suppressed a shiver of fear. The thought of Aja or Ariadne running the Inquisition was unsettling bordering n terrifying.

            Quietly, he began to draw up the orders to draft men for this expedition.

  

* * *

 

           

            “How long will you be gone, do you think?” Hadiza asked as Samson began rummaging through his things. He had precious few belongings, save for his armor and weapons, which were lovingly tended, and a few clothes and books he’d managed to collect in the long year he spent touring Thedas as the Inquisition’s prisoner. It was probably one of the few times Hadiza had visited him in _his_ living quarters, which was a one-room chamber with a Spartan design. Samson paused, looking over a pair of daggers, frowning at the nicks in one and knowing it needed to be forged anew. Silverite was impossible to repair without going to a smith.

            “I don’t know, princess,” he told her, “however long it takes to make things right. I’ll be back before it’s time to head to Ostwick.” Hadiza’s smile was infected with a melancholy he knew too well and he snorted.

            “Don’t look so damn sad,” he chided her, but there was a warmth in his tone he reserved for her, “ain’t like I’m going to war or anythin’. Just rounding up strays and making amends.” Hadiza didn’t look convinced and Samson set down the ruined dagger and stood, coming to face her. He placed his hands on her shoulders and kept his gaze steady with hers.

            “Hadiza,” he told her and she looked at him like a chastised child, “you gave me a shot and now I’m taking it, that’s all. You’re running the Inquisition, and while I still think it’s just another arm of the Chantry, I’m gonna try and do good where I can. There’s a lot of people out there that still need help.” She nodded, knowing he was right. She’d grown accustomed to long missions with him, grown accustomed to having him watch her back, and she watching his. Somehow, the rhythm of their lives had synchronized, and Hadiza took a deep breath and sighed.

            “I know,” she said at last, “doesn’t mean I won’t miss you.” Samson smirked, leaning over to kiss her forehead.

            “Tell you what: we can write to each other. I’ll bore you to sleep with field reports, and you can talk magic or whatever shit you’ve managed to cook up with Dagna. And don’t get into the sweets while I’m gone.” Hadiza made a face of indignation and Samson grinned at her. She huffed.

            “Fine.” She said sullenly, “I can’t promise anything, though. But…I have a gift for you.” Samson’s brows rose, his grin turning to a lupine smirk.

            “Do you, now?” He asked. Hadiza was beaming, now.

            “Yes. I think you’ll like it. Come with me.” She took his hand, and Samson let himself be led through the winding halls, through the main hall where heads turned to see the Inquisitor leading her champion and lover excitedly toward the undercroft. Samson had no idea what to expect when they passed through the ingress to the cool, noisy chamber, but he was curious. Hadiza did not bestow gifts often, and the last time she had, things had caught fire and there was a great deal of yelling on Josephine’s part. Something about curtains and expensive fabric, if he remembered correctly.

            “Harritt!” Hadiza called, never letting go of Samson’s hand, “Please tell me it’s ready!” The blacksmith was bent over one of the worktables with Dagna, the arcanist, and Samson frowned.

            “What’s this about, princess?” He asked her and Hadiza shot him a grin over her shoulder. Harritt looked up and smiled.

            “Aye, Inquisitor, it’s ready.” The blacksmith retrieved a wrapped parcel from another workstation and brought it up the steps. Samson knew it was a sword, but when the parcel was unwrapped he had to keep from swearing. It was a fine blade—Maker’s balls that was an understatement. It was a _fine_ blade, exquisite in its crafting, and from the looks of it, made of silverite. Samson stared, mouth slightly agape. It bore none of the flourishes of a chevalier’s sword, and he could tell Hadiza had input into its design; deceptively simple, but inherently deadly. The hilting was a fine dragon’s hide leather, likely from one of Hadiza’s conquests, tanned and supple but tough as stone in its durability. The pommel was diamond-shaped, slightly rounded at the tip. Everything about the sword had been designed with painstaking care.

"Kneel." Hadiza murmured, then smiled sheepishly, "If you please." Samson frowned. He was puzzled at first, but he understood from the look she gave him how important this moment was. For him. For her. For everyone.

The undercroft was drafty, and silence impossible with the consistent presence of the waterfall spilling outside of the awning of stone in the mountains. And yet her voice was clear, solemn; she was The Inquisitor.

“Raleigh Samson,” she began, “you have pledged yourself to the service of the Inquisition and all that we stand for, is it not so?”

Samson said nothing, but he bowed his head in ascent. In truth, the pledge had been for her, and not for the Inquisition, of which he bore little love.

“Very well.” Hadiza’s voice was still gentle, but there was steel in it, the kind he’d seen and heard in her when she’d faced him, the kind he’d seen in her when she sat on her throne and judged the guilty and the damned.

“Do you wish to continue to serve?” She asked softly, all traces of solemnity banished from her voice. Samson looked up, remembered the words Cullen had asked him a lifetime and more ago. They echoed across the timeline of his heartstrings, summoning up the ghost of that fervent loyalty. Hadiza watched him, patient, questioning, knowing her question bore more weight than either of them could fathom.

“The last mage who handed me a magical sword wanted me to break the world with it, Inquisitor,” he told her, “if I say yes, what would you have me do?”

Hadiza considered him a moment, then glanced down at the sheathed blade he held reverently in both hands. She looked up to meet his eyes and then knelt in front of him so that they were face to face. How he ached for her approval, then!

Hadiza’s fingertips ran over the length of the scabbard, brushing over his hands.

“You can fix the world, Samson,” she told him, “but only if you are willing. And so I ask you again: is it your wish to continue to serve the Inquisition?”

_Are you with me?_

Samson kept his gaze steady.

“It is, Inquisitor.” He told her.

_Always._

Hadiza smiled, then leaned forward, placing a reverent and almost ritualistic kiss to his brow.

“Then take this sword, and serve the people who have need of it.”

Samson felt something stir in him, something he'd thought dead long before Hadiza's mercy first touched him. He rose to his feet with her and met her eyes again.

            “Hadiza…” Samson began and Hadiza grinned. Samson stepped forward, and Harritt handed the sword to him. In Samson’s calloused hand, the hilting felt right, and over time he knew the grip would be perfect. He tested the weight and balance, found it to his liking. It was lightweight without feeling flimsy, but the edge was honed with such care that he could split hairs if he desired. Upon closer inspection he saw the runes inscribed on the groove of the sword’s blade. He recognized fire runes and knew the blade held its own enchantments. Harritt handed him the scabbard and Samson sheathed the blade. It slid in smoothly with a satisfying hiss and he couldn’t hide the smile that followed.

            “Well?” Hadiza prompted, looking smug. Samson didn’t care in that moment, and caught her up in a strong embrace to kiss her soundly, taking her by surprise. He lifted her off her feet, drew the kiss out with a loud, wet sound, setting her back down and leaving her dizzy and heavy-lidded.

            “I think he likes it,” Dagna said smugly, clearly proud of her handiwork. Harritt chuckled. Hadiza touched her fingertips to her mouth, smiling gently.

            “You should name it,” Harritt told him, “blade that fine deserves a name.” Samson found himself agreeing, and gazed down at the sheathed sword. For a moment, the undercroft faded away as he recalled the memory of a forge bathed in red light. Maddox, bent over a grindstone, sharpening daggers and swords. Maddox, bent over a worktable, hammering away, tempering steel; bird made of tempered steel, still warm from the forge fires, cooling on a worktable, reminiscent of a time lost to the both of them, of memories neither wished to forget.

Maddox, a veritable virtuoso in crafting implements of war where he had only been so-so as a mage, and a friend lost to the corruption of a broken system; he would have liked this blade, Samson thought. He would have liked the weight of it, would have told Samson all of its properties and how it would serve. With _Certainty_ , he had been ready to carve a bloody trail through history and scour Thedas clean to help a would-be god rebuild anew. With this blade—as yet unnamed—he could forge his own destiny. He’d not raise his sword for any cause but a just one.

            Not the Inquisition, and not even for _her_. He’d do this for himself.

            “ _Redemption_.” He said firmly and Hadiza’s brows rose. With a surgical precision and deftness, Samson belted the sword, letting its weight settle at his hip. Harritt nodded firmly, understanding. Hadiza understood too, and she and Samson shared a look that held all the pages of their unlikely tale between them. Dagna crossed her arms.

            “Be sure to let me know how those runes work,” she told him, “the Inquisitor didn’t exactly give me time to test them all. But we do know that when flesh is cut, the wound is cauterized immediately. No muss, no fuss.” Samson glanced at Hadiza, who gave him a helpless shrug.

            “I hate being covered in blood,” she said with a grin and he chuckled, shaking his head, turning back toward the door to leave. Hadiza followed, smiling back at Harritt and Dagna, looking supremely accomplished.

            Later, Samson had finished his preparations and set out to meet the hand-picked men Cullen would send with him. Hadiza was there as well to watch as a coterie of soldiers stood ready to ride out of Skyhold. She suppressed the swell of pride at seeing Samson in his armor, looking every bit the templar and soldier he had once been, standing erect as a boy twice his junior, with a certainty in his step that was born of a renewed vigor and sense of purpose. She even saw how Cullen dealt with him and was silently relieved that the two men had at long last begun to see eye to eye.

            When Samson and his men rode out of Skyhold, there were no cheers, no fanfare and frippery to see them off. There was only the silence of an autumn breeze, the march of boots, and the crunch of armor fading in the distance. Hadiza felt something in her, a profound sense of _absence_ that she hadn’t felt in a long while. Truly, she had grown accustomed to his presence by her side that returning to her room felt…anticlimactic. She lifted her sleeve, staring at the glowing veins on her arm.

            The whispers came back that night. And this time, they bore the distinct, dulcet voice of the thing that called itself _Sethius_.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by raexmell. Leave your thoughts in the comments.


	12. Retribution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which chickens come home to roost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW because masturbation.

            Cullen had spoken truly: the men were hesitant to trust Samson.

            The march from Skyhold had been mostly silent. He’d briefed the men on their assignment, and sent the scouts ahead of them to keep him abreast of anything they may have encountered en route to Ferelden. Once they cleared the Frostbacks, Samson turned them south toward the Hinterlands. He was distinctly aware that he was in command only of the Inquisition soldiers. The Inner Circle members who came with him were Blackwall and Cole, and while it was a relief to work alongside those who knew and had grown to trust him, it did nothing to alleviate the way the Commander had salted his ‘gift’ thusly.

            The first night they made camp, Samson had to bark at them to tend to their duties. He was still a general at heart, and he would not stand to be insulted by soldiers trying deliberately to be insubordinate. Blackwall watched, thoughtful and somewhat amused, as he ate his salted beef stew by the cookfire. Samson sat beside him once the men got to tending to the night’s duties and watches.

            “Something funny, Warden?” Samson asked with a grunt, and Blackwall chuckled.

            “Just never thought I’d see the day that Commander Cullen engaged in petty games such as these, is all,” Blackwall commented with a smug smile, “still raw about the Inquisitor, eh?” Samson rolled his eyes and ate in silence. In truth, Samson wasn’t sure if Cullen was angry with _him_ or Hadiza. He wagered on the former, given their history. Heartache could be worn away to oily scar tissue with the balm of time’s passing, but what Samson had done was shatter Cullen’s vision of the Order. His ideals had been warped and corrupted by his actions and Samson understood that it would probably take more than a year or two for the Commander to come to terms with it. Forgiveness and mercy were two things Samson would never ask of anyone.

            But part of him wished this path he’d chosen would be just a little easier some days.

            That night, he lay in his bedroll, his joints aching, and the lyrium song dim in his blood, and cold. He recalled nights spent on the road with _her_ , of laughter by the campfire, of trading jokes and stories, of music and song, of all the things his current company seemed to lack. He recalled Hadiza’s warmth in their shared bedroll, of how she curved her body to fit his, of his hand and hers becoming a tangle of fingers, with their weapons within easy reach. He missed the smell of her, like warm vanilla and the subtle spice of something else he couldn’t quite name. Samson found himself wishing he’d taken something of hers, just to trap the smell of her near him.

            He fell asleep with that thought, and woke before dawn to rouse the men to break down the camp. The breakfast was lackluster, but hunger made for excellent seasoning and so he ate the tasteless and watery porridge with a prodigious appetite.

            “Where’s the spirit-boy?” Samson asked Blackwall during their trek that day. Blackwall shrugged.

            “Probably sneaking about. He’s not keen on being seen, you know.” Blackwall adjusted in the saddle and Samson sucked his teeth, his tongue poking at the gap where Hadiza had knocked out one of his molars when they’d first crossed paths on the battlefield.

            “Yeah, I know,” he muttered, “would be nice if he’d stop faffing about and actually made himself useful.”

            The first three days of travel were uneventful, and Samson was beginning to question if the oncoming winter had somewhat to do with the slowed activity on the roads. Birds were flying north to the warmer climes for the oncoming winter, and even the bears that prowled the Hinterlands had retreated to hidden caves and shelters to prepare for the long months of hibernation.

The mornings began with frost, and the evenings were beginning to get cold enough to warrant a need for constant warmth. They came across mage caches and camps on their journey, and after the initial fear had passed (Cole at last made himself known), were able to point them in the direction of Skyhold where they could aid the Inquisition and find some recompense for the losses they suffered.

            To Samson, Divine Victoria had erred in her disbanding of the Circles. She had the right of it, but had not planned for the hundreds of now-homeless mages, and even some templars, that would have nowhere else to go. To some, the Circle had been the alpha and omega of their lives. Samson knew too well the sting of the old wound when the Chantry had slammed their doors in his face and he had retreated to the depths of Lowtown, brought low and humble by circumstance.

            He’d not see others suffer the same fate.

            The first time they came upon rogue templars, Samson knew that there were raw recruits amidst the eight men Cullen had assigned to him. Samson had not yet learned their names, and they’d not deigned to introduce themselves, and so his commands were given in gestures and generalized yelling.

            The templars were suffering from lyrium withdrawal. With no mages to guard, the Chantry had no true use for them, whose sole purpose was to keep magic in check. Beyond that, they were merely highly trained warriors. But with no Circles, the lyrium supply was hard to come by, and Samson knew from experience that even if they could find mercenary work, eventually the thirst would interfere with their efficiency. Samson halted their company when he heard them, dismounting and approaching alongside Blackwall.

            “Cole, keep the reading to a minimu—“

            “There’s so much pain, here…” Cole said slowly, “…they are not going to die, but their suffering is heavy, like a great stone on the chest.”

            Samson knew the pain Cole spoke of; he was intimately familiar with its weight coupled with the sharp, jagged edges of hunger in his belly. He knew it so well that he didn’t have to ask the boy to elaborate.

            “You…” One of them, a young templar with barely any fuzz on his chin, said in a breathless pant, “…I know you. You’re the one who fouled the Order. The one who poisoned it with the red lyrium.” Samson came up short, his expression hard. The templar was seated on a rotting log, elbows on his knees, his head and shoulders bowed as he attempted to steady his breathing against the searing pain in his gut. Samson pitied him in that moment, remembering his lyrium supply in his saddlebags not far behind him. He was not sure if he should have been thankful for it or ashamed that he was still chained to it. But he knew right now these templars needed his help.

            “Aye, that was me,” Samson agreed slowly, “and now I’m here for the Inquisition. What’s your name, knight?” The knight was younger than him, perhaps a little younger than Cullen, and he glared sullenly before wincing at the sharp pain in his belly. Samson waited, knowing the only difference between himself and this young knight was the supply of glowing blue vials the Inquisition gave him. His clarity and focus were a startling contrast to the knight attempting to ignore his question, but there was no time. Cole said they weren’t going to die, but he’d not let them suffer withdrawal in the wilderness alone.

            He’d not let them suffer the same fate the Chantry had condemned him to.

            “Look, lad,” Samson said, impatient burgeoning in his voice like blood welling from a wound, “you can settle your score with me some other time, but right now, you need lyrium…or a healer. I can help you get to either or both.”

            “Lyrium…” The boy said with a guttural sound as he leaned over, “…please.” Samson considered a moment, then turned and strode towards his horse. He reached into one of the secured saddlebags and withdrew two vials before returning to the two knights.

            “I thought…” The other knight said with a breathless pant, “…thought you were the Knight in Red…the songs say…”

            “I know damn well what the songs say,” Samson snapped, “and bards got a way of laying it on a little thick. What are you all doing all the way out here?” He waited for an answer, already running through the possibilities in his head.

            “Chasing a maleficar,” the young boy said quickly, “she…she managed to outpace us. At this rate we’ll lose her.”

            Blackwall snorted. “Does it matter? No Circles means you aren’t obligated to hunt down mages, maleficarum or no.” He and Samson exchanged a look and the ex-templar made a noise that could have been a growl of annoyance.

            The boy was _lying_.

            “And where was she headed last?” Samson asked as he shifted his weight with imperceptible grace. The boy blinked, exchanging a glance with his companion, and then eyeing the lyrium Samson still held, licking his lips. Blackwall said nothing, waiting for an answer.

            “Not far, likely to Denerim. Probably knows she’ll find protection there.” He answered bitterly. Samson said nothing and for a moment it seemed as if he were considering their words and the most plausible course of action. Then he sucked his teeth.

            “Well, we can help you find them. I’ll have my men take a look around, see if they can pick up her trail.” Samson suggested. The older templar looked angry.

            “What makes you think we’d accept help from the one who fouled the Order’s name?” He growled, making to rise to his feet. Samson shifted his weight slightly, saw Blackwall do the same. There was a stillness that came into the air, replaced only by a warbling tension as both the Inquisition soldiers and the templars waited to see if Samson would deign to answer.

Samson knew from the first that once he set foot outside of Skyhold, once he walked bareheaded beneath the Thedosian skies that he would have to answer for his crimes. When he’d broken his back laboring to rebuild ruined homes, walls, and lives, he could hide beneath the dirt and grime of his work, could turn his face away and make himself scarce when the talk started up.

When he’d traveled with Hadiza into the field, aiding her in demon slaying, he could hide behind the emblem of the Inquisition. Her circle knew him by now as one on the path to redemption. But here, in the places where the Inquisition’s influence was ephemeral at best, and nonexistent at worst, he knew he’d have no such luck on his side.

_It is no different than anything else your life has amounted to,_ he thought with a bittersweet humor, _might as well bite down and bear it. You had it coming_.

“You’re right,” Samson said at last, “you shouldn’t accept my help. Not mine, not the Inquisition’s, which is the reason you’re out in the wilderness in the first place.” Blackwall’s brows furrowed slightly at the remark but he said nothing to gainsay him.

“I’ll tell you what you should do,” Samson continued, “you should start telling me what you’re actually doing out here.” At that, the older templar stood up. He was Samson’s height, but Samson had a bite in his presence the older templar lacked. It was clear this man had seen nothing outside of the Circle, where as Samson had seen everything.

“You have no authority here.” The younger man said and Samson did not respond. The man wasn’t wrong, but the Inquisition answered to no one, and by extension, he only answered to the Inquisitor. Maker, this was a mess. Samson sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“No, I don’t,” Samson said, “but the Inquisition does, and I’m one of them.” That earned a scoff from the younger templar, and a dour look from the elder.

Blackwall sympathized in that moment. It seemed he alone understood Samson’s rather precarious position in the eyes of the people. He at least had the benefit of his crimes being years behind him. The wounds Samson inflicted on the people of Thedas were still fresh, the hatred and clamoring for his head still raw and vocal. It would be a long time before this blew over and he was allowed to atone in peace.

The two templars exchanged a look, and the younger looked about ready to draw his sword and test his mettle against the former general. Samson was nigh ready to let him, if only to end the conversation and get to the root of the problem.

“If you’re tracking a maleficar,” Samson said, “then I’m going to assume she’s either an apostate or her phylactery’s broken. Has the Arl been alerted of the presence of maleficar in his lands?” Samson knew he tread a dangerous line, knew this to be a farce, but went through the motions anyway. Blackwall waited, wondering what he was getting at.

“Mages and their handling are not in the Arl’s demesne,” the older templar said coolly, “even you should remember that much.”

“And if your maleficar has fled beyond your reach, then the Arl’s in a better position than anyone to mount a search to get them back.” Blackwall retorted, crossing his arms over his chest. Samson was inclined to agree. Better to alert the Arl then have the Inquisition and rogue templars running unchecked in his lands.

“If it’s not too much trouble, then,” Samson said, “we’ll provide an escort for you to reach Redcliffe safely. You can give the Arl your story, widen your search.” At the youngster’s contemptuous glare, Samson wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose. He was playing nice for the sake of the Inquisition, and he felt the constriction of the proverbial collar _she’d_ looped around his neck. For a brief instant, he resented her, but he knew without it he wouldn’t last long in a world that would see him dead. Her push for him to heal had kept him from skirting the edge of madness, and his determination to live to spite his enemies had seen to the rest. He’d play nice, but he wouldn’t roll over if forced to fight.

There was a tense moment, as the other templar considered the offer, and then nodded slowly, his mouth set in a grim line. Samson turned to look over his shoulder.

“Alright, we’re taking on two more. Going to escort these men to Redcliffe, and help them search for this rogue mage they’re hunting.” Even as the words left his mouth Samson hated the taste of the lie. Blackwall shared a glance with him briefly but Samson said nothing.

* * *

Guilt wormed its way into his gut as he passed off two lyrium vials to the templars. He watched with a strange commingling of shame and anger as they greedily brought the vials to their lips, draining the glowing blue liquid to the last drop, licking their lips. Almost immediately, the younger templar’s disposition seemed less recalcitrant and the older templar begrudgingly thanked Samson for his aid. Samson, for his part, knew too intimately the pains of withdrawal, but it was a choice these two men decided to continue making as they clutched their empty vials momentarily, reverent and relieved, before tossing them away.

He was down two vials, and Samson knew he should not have cared, knew he was doing the right thing by helping these men. He’d endured worse, but there was a subconscious needling in his mind, something ugly and sharp as he stole one last glance at the discarded empty vials they left behind. As he downed Dorian’s special concoction, he forgot about it, pushed it further into the ether of his brain to focus on the mission at hand.

For the most part they traveled in silence, born of necessity and the fact that none of the men had much to say to one another. Samson kept to himself when they made camp, ensuring rations were doled out accordingly, and that watch rotation was adhered to. For their part, the Inquisition soldiers seemed more inclined to listen to him in the face of strangers, and Samson was relieved that they respected him enough to not undermine his authority.

He wrote, of course, as he promised he would. Most of their time was spent marching and tracking, and the weeks slid by quickly, as the cold grew bitterer by the day. While shivering in his tent, Samson stared at the sheaf of paper, wondering what he could possibly say to her that he could not say when he saw her again. He had always been tactile, and in the long year spent by her side, he’d grown accustomed to being able to see, feel, and hear her responses. He had taken that for granted, he knew.

_Hadiza...Inquisitor. I don’t know what to call you._

_This isn’t an official report or anything, but I know your damned spies love to sift through your mail, so I won’t waste time telling you all the things I want to tell you._

_We’ve been on the road for a few weeks, now, and picked up some stray mages along the way. I’ve sent them along to Skyhold using the route Ghost gave me. They should be near to you by the time you get this letter. No Tranquil spotted yet, but I’m sure they’re about. Hopefully they’ve the good sense enough to head for the nearest village or town where someone can put them up for the winter and give them work to do._

Samson stared at his words, felt his heart swell with what he wanted to put on the page. _I miss you_. He struck the line out.

_I love you_. He inked that out as well.

_Maker I wish you were here._ That, he didn’t write, but kept the words etched on his mind, deeply private. He did wish she was here. Right about now she’d be shuffling about, preparing to bed down for the night, looking over field reports from her network in the area, or taking the first watch as she was wont to do. He’d smell her musky perfume all over the tent, would let the comfort of another soul near him settle on his shoulders like a fur mantle. He missed her terribly and it angered him. It had been a long time since he’d missed someone.

_We picked up a few stray templars along the way. They were suffering lyrium withdrawal. I gave them some of my supply to ease the pain. We’re escorting them to Redcliffe. The Arl might be able to help them find the maleficar they’re tracking, and he may be able to find work for them. Not much more to tell than that. We should be in Redcliffe in another day or so. You’d better be on the mend by the time spring rolls around. Would be nice to head back to the Marches. Too damned cold in the south for my liking._

_-R. Samson_

He briefly waited as the ink dried, and set aside his quill. His handwriting was sharp and aggressive, and he mostly blamed the cold for making him feel rushed. He wondered what else he’d write about. It was the first letter he’d written to her in a long while. For a long time, they were inseparable.

When he rolled up the letter and sealed it with the Inquisition’s insignia in wax, he sighed, blowing out the lamp to conserve oil, and then bundling up in his bedroll. His feet were cold, even with the extra pair of socks, and he shivered despite himself. Sleep eluded him for a long time, and so he turned his thoughts once more to the memories he’d forged in the past year.

She’d slide into the bedroll with him, fitting in his arms like a dream, the svelte curves of her body molding to the hard, chiseled lines of his own. His hands would go up her back, longing to feel her satin skin beneath his rough palms. He shut his eyes and inhaled, hoping to conjure her up with a thought. Her mouth was warm and soft, always so soft, and she smelled of dew-drenched violets. He wanted to kiss the skin.

He could hear her pleased sigh stirring his hair, even as he traced the familiar path of her throat to settle his lips, dry and harsh as they were, on her pulse. It hammered gently beneath his smiling mouth like a trapped thing, and as always, his tongue traced it, marking a point on a map only he was familiar with.

Unable to stymie his desire any longer, Samson unlaced his breeches and freed himself. He was as hard as granite in his own hand, and he squeezed his cock, imagining her hand instead of his, hearing her amused laughter. He couldn’t decide which part of her he wanted, and so he stroked himself, letting his imagination write the story for a while.

Hadiza always liked to tease, and the vision he conjured in his mind was no different. She slid against him, skin to skin, feeling the way silk would if silk was given life. Her hand cupped the heavy sac beneath his cock, rolling it in her palm with a gentle pressure that made Samson grit his teeth. He knew it was his own hand, but keeping his eyes closed helped.

She whispered in his ear, and were he not in camp Samson might have answered her filthy obscenities with some of his own. He stroked himself a little faster, his hand in time with her own. Hadiza’s lips stayed as his ear, whispering, encouraging, her wicked smile bleeding into her sultry voice. Samson’s body tensed, one hand on his cock, the other gently kneading his balls in time with the vision of her. Her thumb circled the tip of his cock, and he wanted so badly to feel her mouth on him, to feel himself within that wet heat. The thought of her lips split around his cock was enough to hasten his climax. With a grunt and a low groan, Samson spilled his seed onto his hand and belly, his cock twitching in his hand.

For a while, he lay there, panting, the bedroll suddenly too hot. When his body knit itself together anew, trapping his soul within its borders once more, he finally decided to get up and clean himself. After, sleep came as easy as a breath, so easy that he did not even remember closing his eyes until there was a scratch at his tent flap alerting him that it was his turn to take the watch.

For a moment, Samson forgot her, settling comfortably into his position without her bright shadow to protect him. And as he stood his watch, he saw dawn cresting on the horizon, limning the mountains and trees in fiery gold, he felt content. He felt as if things were finally going in a direction he was pleased with. 

* * *

Redcliffe was a day’s ride away when they were beset by the Arl’s own men.

In truth, he should have expected it. There had to have been spies about, and word of his commuted sentencing had to have burned the ears of many outside of the Inquisition’s stronghold. He felt it first as an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. At first, he attributed it to nerves, but as the days wore on and they wound their way through the hills toward Redcliffe, he knew something was wrong.

There was an unnatural sense of quietude that settled over the land, like the winds in sails suddenly dying, and Samson became hyperaware that they were being watched, and even more so, that they were being followed. It itched at the base of his skull, an instinct honed over the course of two decades, one he knew was folly to ignore. Yet, Redcliffe was close, and soon they would be within the safety of its walls. The aegis of the Inquisition was upon him, and so he ignored the itch, perished the thought, and marched on.

            Thus, when the mounted blockade came upon them, Samson was well and truly surprised, but deep down, a voice told him he was a fool to become complacent.

“The Inquisition isn’t needed here.” The leader spoke in a sneer from beneath his helmet, mounted on a charger that looked as mean as he did. Samson pursed his lips, frowning. At first, he half-expected to hear Hadiza’s imperious voice, telling the men to stand aside, and that the Inquisition answered to no one. Had she been there, she might have done that.

But no, he was in charge of this expedition, and his men, scarcely more than boys, truly, looked to him for a solution. Even Blackwall seemed grim and silent, waiting to see what Samson would do. Left with no choice, Samson stepped forward with a confidence he no longer felt.

“Be that as it may,” he answered, “the Inquisition doesn’t answer to you. We’re escorting these two templars to Redcliffe to seek the Arl’s aid in a delicate matter. If you’ll let us through, we’ll be in and out in no time.” He wanted to add something snarky to his words, wanted to needle at the man’s pride, and drive home that he was untouchable, but he kept it civil. Hadiza would have been proud, he was sure.

“Doesn’t concern us,” the captain retorted, “and I’m sure the Arl will be thrilled to hear about the Red General himself coming to pay us a visit.” He lifted one gauntleted hand, motioning to his men. They came forward, on foot, hands on their sword hilts, and Samson felt the itch at the base of his skull become a tingle that threaded through his body down to the marrow of his bones. He waited a beat before speaking.

“You really going to do this here, ser?” Samson asked, “When all we’re doing is helping folk in need of it?”

The captain said nothing, merely watched with cold indifference from atop his horse.

It happened quickly, almost too quickly. The guards, ten of them, came forward, and there were several hisses of steel as sword derailed from their sheaths, singing heavenward. Blackwell and Samson barked orders to their men, and the two templars bolted. Samson could have spit he was so disgusted. When had a templar ever been so cowardly? His sword gleamed in the dying sunlight, and when it was over, sheer numbers overwhelmed. The captain looked grimly satisfied, though he’d lost two of his men to severed limbs and a cut throat. They forced Samson, Blackwall, and the tiny handful of Inquisition soldiers to their knees. Samson grunted, glancing around. Where in the Void was that spirit boy? Why hadn’t he helped them make quick work of these men? He didn’t receive an answer, and as the captain came to sand before him, having dismounted, he knew that it did not matter where Cole was anymore.

“Thank you, Ser Samson,” the captain sneered, “for making this easy for all of us.” His gaze settled on one of his men, likely his lieutenant. “Have them put in irons. We’ll take them to the Arl at once. I’m sure he’s eager to see justice done.”

Samson watched the sun sink behind the trees as he heard the jangle of chains, and felt the heavy weight of iron manacles on his wrists. It was not so long ago that he’d been in this self-same position, only it was a woman who stood before him as he was clapped in chains. The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, in truth. And now, as they hauled him, Blackwall, and their men toward Redcliffe, with the templars nowhere in sight, Samson wondered if he’d ever see her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, after several months of letting this story sit, I finally got around to updating. I had to rewrite several things (including this chapter), adjust some meta and headcanons, fight with the fandom for a bit, and shed some dead weight, but here we are. I hope to get this story on a roll again so I can get to the good shit I really, _really_ am aching to write in this story.


	13. To Err

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No good deed goes unpunished, the road to hell is paved with good intentions, etc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's come to my attention that the gap between updates has left some folks wanting smut and not caring for the story. Okay. That's fine. Don't care. I want this story told anyway. I'm committed.

The last time he’d been thrown into a cell, it had been dreadfully cold and drafty, the wind howling through the Frostbacks, bemoaning the fate of Thedas. It had been bearable in the day, but the howling had kept him up all night. Skyhold had been a formidable prison, had served to drown out his thoughts until Hadiza had him moved to a quieter, more isolated cell. There, he’d come face to face with his own guilt, and the names of the dead staining his soul. In the darkness, he’d been allowed to contemplate his life, ruminate on the decisions that had landed him there to begin with, and when dragged to light, given the chance to attempt redemption. All of this he had done in the year since Corypheus’ defeat. He knew what he was, who he was, and who he wanted to be in the time he had left.

Redcliffe Castle’s dungeon would not break him.

Samson sat in his cell, listening to the silence. The stone was thick enough that he could hear no signs of activity in the castle above, but that didn’t concern him. Blackwall was in a cell further down the line, equally pensive and silent. They remained that way for what felt like hours. Unlike Skyhold, Samson could not _feel_ the passage of time. Day and night mattered little, and there was no sign of anyone—even a guard.

Exhaustion finally won out and Samson leaned his head back against the stone wall and shut his eyes. He felt as if he’d scarce drifted off to sleep when he heard the jangle of keys and the turn of a lock. A door swung open as he opened his eyes, bleary with fatigue, his head aching as he heard the clank and crunch of armor coming toward him.

“Former Knight-Templar Samson,” the voice was imperious and disdainful and Samson blinked in the darkness. The torchlight seemed to barely touch him, and he was reminded of his exchange with Cullen so long ago. He studied the speaker’s fine clothes, brocaded velvet doublet, fine hose,and fur-lined shoes of the finest suede. This could only be the Arl or the Bann.

“Expelled from the Order in Kirkwall for aiding and abetting a mage,” he went on, “recruited by the darkspawn abomination known as Corypheus, and proceeded to feed and corrupt the entire Order with red lyrium and wage war on Southern Thedas. For these crimes you have been found guilty and the penalty is death. Have you aught to say in your defense?”

Samson could have laughed, and after a moment of silence, he almost considered doing so. But he knew it would solve nothing. This was not like when Cullen came to his cell to milk him for information, only to have Samson bait him into rash action. Samson did allow himself time to gather his thoughts, cloudy from lack of a lyrium dosage, but clear enough that he would not be cowed.

“You’re charging me for crimes I’m already answering for,” he replied, “the Inquisition has already judged me and assigned me a punishment accordingly. Would you gainsay your saviors for the sake of pride?” One of the guards stepped forward, aggressive.

“You stand in the presence of Bann Teagan, traitorous bastard!” He hissed, “Show the proper respect!” Samson turned his tired eyes upon the upstart guard, raising his brows.

“If it’s all the same to you, I don’t think there’s much I can do by way of deference. I’m already imprisoned. Pretty clear who holds all the power here.”

“The Inquisition does not hold sway in Ferelden,” Bann Teagan stated coldly, “and the Inquisitor would do well to remember that when next she sends wanted criminals into my lands to do her dirty work.” At that, Samson adjusted, attempting to get comfortable but finding no comfort.

“Work was hardly dirty, Your Excellency,” Samson said derisively, “she and the Commander sent me on a mission to aid stranded mages and Tranquil who—“ He paused, sitting forward with a grunt, “Doesn’t much matter what mission I was on, does it? You’re going to kill me just the same.” Bann Teagan’s mouth set in a grim line.

“On that we can agree. The Inquisition has fulfilled its purpose and yet still they prowl the lands as if every problem is theirs to solve. And the one problem that needs solving has been allowed to live.” Samson rolled his eyes. He deserved this, he knew, as it was only a matter of time. Hadiza could not protect him from what fate had in store for him. He wondered if his death by the sword would be far more painless than the slow encroachment of corruption in his system. He wondered if they’d hang him in the square like a common criminal, or if he’d die quietly, out of sight of the public. Bann Teagan stared hard at Samson for a moment longer.

“Have you naught to say in your defense?” He demanded and Samson’s lip curled. What did he want?

“You want me to beg forgiveness? Mercy?” Samson spat, “I didn’t ask it of the Inquisition. I definitely won’t ask it of you. Do what you will, ser. On your head be the consequences.”

“Are you threatening me?” The Bann’s voice took on a dangerous edge and Samson spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

“A wolf with no teeth, ser,” he said with a laugh, “but if you think the Inquisition will take kindly to having its authority circumvented and undermined then you overestimate your sovereignty.”

Alright, so perhaps it was a threat, but Samson found he suddenly did not want to die. Even if the Maker thought he deserved to be put to the sword, he’d found too many reasons to live in the long year. To die now would be a coward’s way; he could no longer afford to run from his crimes. He understood then why Hadiza had let him keep his head.

Bann Teagan said nothing, but the white lines of tension around his mouth denoted a deep and abiding rage. Samson smiled to himself. He’d always been infuriatingly good at getting beneath the skin of his opponent. Some skin was even thinner than others, and Bann Teagan might as well have been made of parchment from the way he exhibited a subtle tremor of fury. Samson was outwardly calm, but inside he wondered if he had signed his own death warrant. He’d hang come the dawn for sure, with no chance to ascertain that the Inquisition was informed of his capture. Teagan would see him dead before the Inquisition could act. It made him wonder if the rumors of his intimate relationship with Hadiza had traveled far enough to whisper through Redcliffe’s ancient halls. From the look on Teagan’s face, Samson wagered that he didn’t know.

He just hoped it stayed that way, even if his life ended come morning. 

* * *

They didn’t hang him at dawn, as he thought, nor was he sent to the chopping block.

No, they let him sit in darkness, let him linger within the dank, stone prison, ears straining for a sign that they had not forgotten him…or the the Inquisition had received word of his capture. They’d released none of his men, nor Blackwall, and Samson knew something was amiss from that. No one questioned them as to why they were here in the first place, and guards refused to speak to any of them, even when the Inquisition soldiers cried out to be set free, demanded to contact the Inquisition, or even just demanded to know why they were being detained, they were met with cold indifference.

Samson gritted his teeth. He should have known that this would happen. Skyhold had become acclimated to his presence, and had seen him prove his worth in the final fight against Corypheus. He’d raised his shield in defense of their Inquisitor, the woman he loved. But beyond Skyhold’s demesne, beyond the Frostbacks, the world at large would clamor for his blood unending. He knew this, knew it as he walk bare-headed and free beneath the Ferelden sky, thinking his good deeds, small as they were, would ever wash the blood from his hands. No, his soul had been stained red, and no light holy or otherwise, would beat back the darkness that rested in the pockets of emptiness where his humanity had been shattered by his own actions.

Samson knew that for him, destiny waited beyond the gates of perdition.

But he would not let other men— _good men_ —pay the price alongside him.

A day must have passed, and Samson counted from the paltry meals they were fed, watching as the guards shoved the tray of unidentifiable food through the bars. Samson ate only because he was hungry, but it had been a long time since he’d suffered on the streets of Kirkwall, and the humility of that experience had been worn down by his elevated position as an agent of the Inquisition. Instead of the memory of the hollowing fist of hunger in his gut, he remembered only sitting with Hadiza, drinking wine from ornate goblets, with a veritable spread of options before him. Juicy pheasant, druffalo so tender the meat fell off the bone, potatoes stewed in spiced sauces and seasoned with onions. The memory of these foods rose unbidden as he ate the dry, nigh tasteless garbage from his tray. Indeed, it was enough to make him eat just what he needed to beat back hunger and keep up his strength. But the humility of memory returned as he stared at his tray, and he ate the rest out of habit, wondering if they’d stop rationing food for them eventually.

Another day passed, and still no word from the Inquisition, or the Bann.

“Oy,” Samson called to Blackwall, after the afternoon meal had been served. When there was no answer Samson moved to pound his fist on the wall, and then remembered it was made of stone carved from the very mountain upon which this castle sat. Shutting his eyes and taking a deep breath, Samson bellowed, “Oy, Warden!”

“No need to shout,” came Blackwall’s response, “was just trying to find a corner of this cell I could piss in and bear it.” Samson almost snorted but in truth, they’d not even been given a hole in the ground to relieve themselves, and the smell—once stale—was becoming stronger.

“You reckon the Inquisition knows we’re here?” Samson asked. The sound of Blackwall rummaging with his breeches was his only reply for a while before the Warden opted to clear his throat.

“If they did, your lady would be here raining down the fire of dragons on this entire village, I’d wager,” he laughed derisively, “but I don’t think she’d do that. No, if they know, then the Bann’s put her in a pretty tough spot.” Samson scratched at his stubble, which was becoming more than stubble with each day that crawled past.

“Yeah? How do you figure?” He asked, curious. Blackwall grunted as he sat down, leaning his head back against the wall.

“Well, if she comes with an army at her back and the wrath of dragons in the sky, then your little romance is out in the open. It’ll destroy her credibility and I’m willing to bet petitions from every Chantry from here to Kirkwall will be calling for an Exalted March on the Inquisition.” Samson blanched at the words. The thought of an Exalted March being called because Hadiza committed the crime of loving him was inconceivable. Surely the Divine—the one Hadiza herself put on the Sunburst Throne—would not entertain such madness? Samson liked to believe the former Sister Leliana would never turn the Chantry’s swords against the woman who lifted her to such a lofty position.

And Hadiza would be burned at the stake. It was the punishment for her slap to the face. But this— _they_ —had nothing to do with the Chantry. What they had was not blasphemous.

_Just every kind of wrong there is for two people like us_. Samson thought bitterly.

* * *

Another day passed, and Samson began to wonder. Blackwall’s words lingered like old blood on the tongue, metallic and uncomfortable, unable to be washed away with the water he drank with his meals. The image of Hadiza burning at the stake while his head was already spiked somewhere made him fearful. He couldn’t demand his freedom, and she couldn’t demand it either. Ferelden was exercising their sovereignty, but at the same time overstepping their bound by crossing the Inquisition.

And he was the most wanted dead man in Thedas. His head was no longer too valuable to take, and three places still wanted it just the same a full year gone by.

Had he not been so frightened of his fate, he would have laughed, bitter to the last. He knew that he was no longer that man in part; the one who wished to watch Thedas burn while he crowed his hollow vengeance from atop a mountain. He knew, in the past year, having worked alongside and toiled with the Inquisition in relief efforts, that he was a better man than he had been when he’d been hauled in defeat to stand before the Inquisitor’s throne.

None of that mattered to the ones who suffered under the boot heel of his deadly army.

“Don’t cave, Samson,” Blackwall warned and Samson took a deep shuddering breath, trying to will away the bitterness that encroached, “she gave you a shot at redemption, same as I. Don’t squander it.” Samson frowned, and even though no one looked him in the eye, he turned his gaze to the floor anyway.

“What does it matter if the execution I avoided is carried out anyway? A year ago? A year from now? What does it matter? My fate ” Samson demanded, “And who’s to say I don’t deserve it? Maybe she was wrong about me.”

“Horseshit.” Blackwall retorted, “If that were true any one of us would have barred your way to her bedchamber ages ago.” There was a pause and Samson couldn’t help but smile. It was true enough. His path to her bedchamber was unimpeded, free of blockade by guards and citizenry alike. He touched her in public, as close as he dared, and he drank down the love in her eyes when she deigned to look upon him in front of everyone. He drank it down as surely as if it were the blue, or the red. It gave him a different kind of strength…enough to bear the vitriol of those who had not fought alongside him cheek and jowl in the long year since.

“I thought she was wrong about me too,” Blackwall confessed, “and I still think she is, but she’s got her own mind. She knows what she’s about, even if it’s a bit naive at times.” Samson shared a grin with the darkness of his cell, eyes lingering on the wall.

“Aye, and now look at you: a right proper Grey Warden in every sense of the word,” he said, “but still using a dead man’s name.”

Blackwall flinched, but he took the hit.

“Aye, and you’re an Inquisition agent, bedding the Inquisitor, while men, women, and children are still laying in fresh graves from your long march across Thedas. Neither one of us is without our faults but I’ll not start measuring cocks with the man who sought to infect the world.”

Samson didn’t flinch, but he took the wound to his pride. It was true enough: neither one of them were worth the trouble Hadiza went through to keep them in the Inquisition, and yet kept them she had, for whatever reason. For Samson, he knew it was equal parts love and equal parts hope, and for Blackwall, it was the hope that he could turn the lie he’d lived all those years into truth.

_Become the good man you pretended to be all these years, Thom._ The brand of his true name still stung.

* * *

It had been a full two weeks since their imprisonment, and no word, just three meals of vaguely edible trash, and the distant creaking of doors opening and shutting above them. Two full weeks when the soldiers began to blame Samson for their predicament. As well they should have, had they not followed him, they’d be well on their way back to Skyhold.

“Why’d you ever take up this fool’s errand, anyway?” One of them asked, a man by the name of Corrin. “What need have we for a bunch of mages and Tranquil? The war’s been over for a year, now.”

There was a time when Samson would have spat in rage at the sentiment, but he kept calm in that moment.

“Well we could all ask what need the Inquisition has for a lad with barely any fuzz on his balls and a shield-arm so weak a child could break his defense,” he said with saccharine snideness, “but we’re not asking, are we?”

After that, there was embittered silence.

At the beginning of the third week, Samson began to feel the first nettling pangs of withdrawal. The thirst burned in his mouth, withering his tongue, and he had nothing to quench it. He ate as hunger dictated, but all food tasted like ash and dust in his mouth, and the water served to wet his dry and cracked lips, but the sucking dryness of lyrium-thirst did not abate.

In the middle of the third week, the cramps twisted in his gut.

Samson lay curled in his cell, deaf and blind to the world around him as his existence dwindled to the uncoiling tail of fire in his abdomen. He wretched, not far from where he lay, too weak and paralyzed by pain to do much else. He suffered, and each minute that limped by, his suffering began to break apart what he’d built in the past year. His memory grew cloudy, and he could not remember the last time he’d tasted real food, or pressed his lips to Hadiza’s heated skin. Her laughter was muffled and garbled in his mind, his memories he’d made with her become hazy around the edges. Snatches of conversation were but quick instances of noise in his head, and he was aware of a vague imprint of fingertips, cool and gentle, on his face.

He could hear her, see her, feel her. She called him by name, her voice plaintive.

The fourth week came, and with it, salvation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the purpose of this chapter is because in _Trespasser_ , Teagan goes from good-natured leader to total dick toward the Inquisition. And I thought that was such a wild ass 180 from who we meet in _Origins_. So I needed to drum up a good list of reasons why Teagan would become increasingly fed-up with the Inquisition after Corypheus' defeat. Hadiza's relationship with Samson is obviously one of the big bullet points, but there's other reasons to build up to that damn near snarling vitriol we get from him in the final arc of the game. So hence, this shit rightchea.


	14. Dichotomy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Samson has to do everything himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually had four different people look over this chapter for me and I can finally confidently post this shit.

When they were hauled out of the dungeons and up to the main level, Samson was certain he was bound for the gallows. The pain and the headaches served to dam up his fear, leaving only empty acceptance in its place. When he saw the Inquisition standard, the coterie of soldiers and Commander Cullen, Samson thought in his mind’s clouded and muddled state that Cullen would finally have his vengeance after all.

 _You’ve won, Commander_ , Samson thought with a bitter laugh that sounded like a dry cough, _you can spike my head in Kirkwall for all to gawk at. And then you can console your Inquisitor if she didn’t give the order herself._

The thought of Hadiza sanctioning his execution a year after sparing his life jostled him into some semblance of clarity.

“I am disappointed in you, Commander,” Bann Teagan said, “that you would turn your back on justice for the sake of keeping this traitor alive.” Cullen crossed his arms, golden eyes hard, his expression harder.

“I am not exactly a supporter of this sentence either, ser.” He replied, “But my orders from the Inquisitor still stand, and you have violated the tenets laid down in the treaties signed by your sovereign, Queen Anora. Through her, you are all bound not to interfere in our affairs.”

“And to do what?” Bann Teagan protested, “Trust that criminals will be brought to justice? Do you think me a fool, Commander? This may not be the glittering pageantry of Orlais, but don’t think the rumors of your Inquisitor have not reached our ears. We know what this…this **filth** is to her.”

To that, Cullen said nothing. He was no fan of politics but he knew better than to respond to such easy bait. Samson, for his part, struggled to remain upright between the two guards holding him. Cullen did not so much as spare him a glance.

“Whatever you choose to believe is your choice, ser.” He said evenly, “But the fact remains that you apprehended my men and a sanctioned Inquisition agent and prisoner with the intention to execute them for crimes for which they have already been judged. It is only by the will of the Inquisitor and the treaties drafted by Ferelden and the Inquisition that we do not retaliate.”

“You dare?” Bann Teagan growled, “You are no better than the jackbooted thugs that call themselves the Grey Wardens! Issuing threats as if you are some overarching authority!” 

Cullen ignored the Bann’s increasing temper and nodded toward Samson and the others. The guards, confused, looked to Teagan for guidance.

“Release them.” Teagan said tersely, “And then you and your people get off my lands.”

* * *

The ride back to Skyhold was long and Samson didn’t care, grateful as he was when he was given a vial of lyrium to clear his head and settle his stomach. He was well and able enough to ride, at least, and he rode in pensive silence, trying to regain his bearings. Cullen said nothing to him or Blackwall, and Samson was reminded that Cullen bore no love for either of the men. Blackwall, while his crimes were years old and he was a Warden in truth, had still done something unspeakable. And Samson…ah well.

When they made camp at one of the Inquisition outposts, Samson made to speak with Cullen alone, finding him in his tent looking over reports, and delegating tasks to his subordinates.

“I hear your mission was a success until that stunt you pulled in Redcliffe,” Cullen said by way of greeting. Samson wanted to sneer but found only the energy to lift his lip a little, giving him a feral appearance.

“Well, it was no stunt,” Samson said harshly, “if the damned guards had let us be, we might have escorted those two templars to safety and been on our way. Not my fault—“ He paused, brow knitting in pensive thought before he rolled his eyes, “Actually, it _is_ my fault, but that’s besides the point.”

Cullen looked up, one eyebrow raised in question. Samson sighed, running his hands over his face and sighing again for good measure.

“Look, I did what I did. You all hauled me up before the Inquisition and judged me. I don’t know why she let me live any more than you do, but I think I’m beginning to understand it. Still, even though I probably deserve no more than having my head piked in Kirkwall, I think the Bann was a little bit over dramatic when he took the men and Blackwall too.”

Cullen said nothing and went back to looking over the reports on his desk. Samson frowned.

“And how’d you know to come anyway?” He asked.

Cullen laughed. “That spirit—Cole—showed up at Skyhold much like he did before you attacked Haven,” Samson didn’t miss the dig, but he refused to flinch, “when he started going on and on about lyrium and the like, I took it to Hadi—the Inquisitor.” Samson held back a sly grin. A year later and Cullen still couldn’t rid his tongue of her name.

“We asked why he had returned without you and your men, he went on about pain, lies, someone being hurt…she was able to make more sense of it than me, obviously.” Cullen waved his hand.

Samson rubbed his chin, freshly shaved. So that’s where the boy went. Not like him to not put his knives in the backs of enemies. Then again, Cole was pretty particular about who and what constituted an enemy. Wasn’t too long ago he wanted to skewer Samson himself.

“Alright, so the lad saved our skins.” Samson agreed, “And how is she?” He was surprised when he was apprehensive about saying her name either. It felt too intimate to use in Cullen’s presence.

Cullen said nothing, and went on reading and signing.

“Rutherford. How is she?” Samson asked again, more forceful than before. Cullen paused, setting his quill aside.

“She’s not getting better,” the Commander said grimly, “but she’s not getting worse either. The aposta—the mage, Feynriel, has been monitoring her dreams, keeping whatever infects her contained.” Samson noted the tightness in Cullen’s voice. It was fury.

“I would have told you, Rutherford. But I know how you get around stranger magic than what the Chantry brought us up to believe in.”

Cullen’s hands balled into fists on the desk.

“Oh really? And when were you going to tell me about her little chamber of secrets below Skyhold? The forbidden magic she tampered with that got her into this mess to begin with?” Cullen stood, his gaze molten, and Samson prepared to be drowned in the oncoming tirade, but stood his ground regardless.

“It’s not what you think, Cullen…” Samson began but Cullen was determined to remain angry; all the resentment and hurt he’d kept locked away now given free reign.

“Were you two sneaking about the whole time?” He demanded, “Is that why she practically leapt into your arms?” 

Samson grew far more angry than he should of, with this quarrel a year old.

“Now listen here, Rutherford,” he warned, “I’m not about to fight you about this. She’s got her own mind and no, it’s like I told you before; I never touched her in a way that was untoward or inappropriate. I didn’t even think I should touch her at all, but she needed a templar she could trust not to question her methods.”

Cullen’s face looked like someone had kicked his mabari pup and Samson couldn’t fucking take it. The man hated to lose, Samson knew, and whether Cullen liked to admit it or not, he had more pride than the two of them put together. Samson knew this anger was more wounded pride than anything else, and so he knifed his fingers through his hair to stymie his own frustration, but just barely.

“You were already off the lyrium, Rutherford, you couldn’t have helped her. And let’s face it, you scared the shit out of her sometimes. All that talk about abominations and not trusting mages when she went to rescue them from that magister? Of course she’s not going to ask you to help her.”

“That’s not…” Cullen looked away, “…she could have told me. She could have trusted me.”

“But you gave her too many reasons not to, you idiot,” Samson replied, “Maker! You think she _wanted_ to keep this from you?” He paced the tent, agitated and restless, a wolf trapped by the ones who’d hunted him down. A wolf that willingly accepted shackles on his heart and soul. Damn her. Even now, his heart was filled with her, aching to see her again, and worried that her health had worsened in his absence. Maker, is that why she never wrote him?

Cullen said nothing, looking as sullen as a petulant child, and Samson closed the distance between them until the desk was between them both.

“She’s sick, Rutherford,” Samson explained, “something must have gotten through to her during her search for Corypheus, and it’s why we’re all working to contain and neutralize it. But…” He remembered Teagan’s confirmation that rumors of their relationship had spilled beyond Skyhold’s borders, “There’s a possible solution, and she’s planning to go to Ostwick and find it.”

“And you’ll accompany her?” Cullen asked, his anger cooled significantly.

Samson hesitated, refused to meet his comrade’s eyes.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea. If Bann Teagan knows, then all of Orlais’ tongues were wagging about it months ago. And I imagine it won’t sit well with the monarchs to know about…us. I wouldn’t want to be the cause of an Exalted March on the Inquisition.” 

Cullen’s eyes went wide. “What? You _what_?” He seemed genuinely confused and Samson had to applaud the man for being so splendidly clueless about some things. Only golden-haired Rutherford could be this woefully obtuse about what should have been so obvious to begin with.

“Teagan mentioned he knew what I was to her. He didn’t have to call me by name, and didn’t have to name what he was talking about; the intent was clear. He knows about me and her, and if he knows, then everyone else does too.”

Cullen hesitated but then it dawned on him. “Maker…” He whispered, “…and we just freed you from prison. If you’re seen traveling with her it will confirm everything.” 

Samson nodded his expression grim. “I won’t ever ask any of you to take a lick for me that I earned from my own misdeeds, especially not from the Maker sodding Chantry. And she deserves it least of all. So when she goes to Ostwick…you gotta go with her.” Samson did meet Cullen’s eyes, then and the Commander went ashen.

“I can’t abandon my post,” he said quietly, “not even to save her life.” 

Samson grew angry, tasted the ash and fire in his mouth, felt his chest hollow out with fire and smoke. It was not that Cullen would not go, no, it was that he said Hadiza’s life was secondary to his duty. Was this not why Kirkwall’s Circle had been allowed to become the hell that it was to begin with? Did Cullen learn _nothing_ from his fucking inaction in the past?

“She _needs_ someone with her, Rutherford, and it can’t be me. I wouldn’t ask you if I thought I could go without endangering everything she’s built this past year. I’ve got enough sins to carry.” Samson felt something in his chest crumble, like ruins into the sea. Was this what it felt like? Heartbreak from love of another? He’d not felt this since he’d been stripped of armor and title and kicked into the dust of Kirkwall’s lower districts.

Cullen said nothing, watching the bloody transformation and realizing what Samson implied.

“I cannot abandon my post, Samson,” he repeated, “one of the companions may accompany her, and she’ll have her sisters. Perhaps…” Cullen’s expression was one of sympathy, “Perhaps this is one leg of the journey that you must walk separately.”

* * *

Skyhold was quiet when they passed through the gates. Winter closed its fist tighter in the Frostbacks, and Samson was never so glad to be back home. He did not feel very welcomed, nor did he expect to, but the familiarity of the place was felt in his bones. Blackwall rode alongside him, pensive as always, keeping his own counsel. Samson was all too eager to dismount and let the stabled take his horse, all too eager to get inside and see her. For once, he was grateful for the ignominy he faced, as while the others were holed up with reports and greetings, he marched inside and made straight away for the Inquisitor’s chambers.

And found his way barred by Aja.

“The prodigal son returns,” she chuckled darkly, “looking for something?”

Samson didn’t have time for games. He was road-weary, and his bones ached, dry of his usual dosage of the blue. He felt a cursory bite of shame at the thought, but pushed it aside.

“Not now, Trevelyan,” he snapped, “I need to see her.” Aja raised a brow, but did not stand aside. Samson met her gaze with his own and Aja did not cow; instead, she dropped her chin a fraction, allowing him to see the glimmer of red that ringed the silver of her gaze; the definitive mark of a Reaver, and the blood-madness that lingered just beneath the fault line of her sanity. Samson knew any altercation with Aja that turned physical would be deadly to him in his current state. With a frustrated curse under his breath, he held up his hands in a gesture of peace. Anything to quell the monstrous warrior that swam the hot magma of Aja’s blood.

“Look,” he began, “I know I fucked up, but at least allow me to explain myself.” 

Aja smirked. “You know, I wanted to believe you’d know better, but here we are, having to clean up your mess.”

“Where is Hadiza?” Samson demanded, ignoring the digs at his already shaky confidence.

As if on cue, Aja jerked her head down the main hall. The side door leading to Josephine’s office was opened forcefully, and out strode Josephine, looking worried, alongside Ariadne, who, while cool and composed, looked mildly agitated. Then he saw Hadiza, and she looked awful. No, she looked sick. Her skin seemed drained of the rich vibrancy that made her glow most days, and her hair had lost most of its sheen. She knifed her fingers through the matted waves and curls in frustration. Aja shook her head at Samson imperceptibly, but Samson was already striding toward Hadiza, who looked up, eyes unfocused for a moment.

There, before all assembled, Hadiza’s gaze sharpened momentarily, and she lifted her left hand which was covered in a glove, but Samson saw a flash of her skin beneath the sleeve, where several red veins pulsated and glowed beneath her parchment-like skin.

 _No_.

“Ser Samson,” Josephine greeted with an exhausted sigh, “I trust you and the Inquisitor have much to discuss.” She looked tired as well, and Samson noted the dark circles formed beneath her own eyes. Maker, what had been going on while he was away?

Josephine gave a brief curtsy. “If you’d excuse me, I must attempt to repair what remains of our relationship with Ferelden. Ariadne?” The spymaster nodded and followed Josephine to the stairwell leading to the rookery. Samson and Hadiza were left standing in the main hall, which was virtually empty as evening encroached.

“Hadiza…” Only her name, and yet it was weary with everything that needed to be said between them. Hadiza did not smile, but the corners of her mouth trembled in an attempt. Wordlessly, they left the main hall, and Aja finally stood aside as they went to her chambers.

* * *

 

“I’m so sorry.” Samson said when they were in her bedroom. Hadiza hadn’t spoken the entire trip up the stairs. She was usually very chatty during their reunions, but Samson noted the hollowness in her eyes and cheeks, the weariness that overtook the sway of her body as she walked. Her eyes were bruised from lack of sleep, heavy-lidded and drugged. Samson began to worry, a feeling like a snake slithering from his gut to coil in the cavity of his chest, waiting to poison him.

“Hadiza,” he said her name again, trying to get through to her, “talk to me. Shit. You…” He glanced around the room. It was usually so meticulous, well-kept, smelling faintly of the powdery scent she wore on her skin. There were vials all over the floor, and he knew from the faint tingle at the base of his skull that they once held lyrium. Maker, how much had she consumed in the weeks he’d been away?

“For the dreams,” she finally spoke, her voice a whisper and crackle of fatigue, “helps me sleep without incident.”

“Where’s Feynriel?” Samson asked her, unable to reconcile the untidiness of the bedchamber with the woman to whom cleanliness was simply a state of being.

“He went to gather more herbs in the valley,” Hadiza explained making her way across the room to the bed, where she sat down tiredly, “he should be back within a fortnight.” She reached down to try and unlace her boots, but her hands trembled, fumbling with the laces. She muttered a curse.

“Fuck,” Samson hissed, “Let me.” He went to her, kneeling at her feet. Slowly, carefully, he helped her unlace them, sliding them from her legs and feet and setting them carefully aside. Hadiza watched him, but her gaze was unfocused, seeing him but not seeing him. Samson continued to worry, that viper in his chest beginning to uncoil slowly, rearing its head, but he said said nothing. Something was terribly wrong, he felt it, but he could not place his finger on what it was.

“You killed two of Teagan’s men,” Hadiza said quietly, “and now he sends emissaries telling the Inquisition to clear out of his lands…what in the void happened?” Samson almost smiled, but he knew better. His hands slid up her calf muscles, giving them a gentle squeeze, and then came to rest on her knees.

“Did you not get my letters?” He asked her, his voice gentle and concerned.

“I…have been slow about getting to my missives…” She explained and Samson shared her gentle smile with his own. He’d never seen her this messy. It would have been endearing had he not glimpsed those veins in her forearm, spreading like a plague along her skin.

“We found some templars along the path we were taking,” he began, “told ‘em we’d escort them to Redcliffe to seek the Arl’s help. Got stopped by the Bann’s own men just outside the gates. They pushed for a fight, and I…defended myself.”

Hadiza nodded. “So they arrested you because they felt my justice wasn’t true justice.” She said.

Samson snorted. “Can you blame them, princess?” He asked her, “You imprisoned me, gave me backbreaking labor, and now I’m sharing your bed. Others have been condemned to death or stripped of everything and banished. I got lucky…” He looked away, “I’m not so sure I deserve this.”

Hadiza blinked. “Are you saying that we…what we have…is the reason for this?” She asked him.

Samson looked up at her. It was now or never.

“Yes,” he murmured, “that’s exactly what I’m saying. You can’t protect me from the consequences of my actions, Hadiza. You said yourself that there would be implications for what we’re doing. But you can’t let this…” His hands smoothed up her thighs, “…you can’t let it stand between me and what has to happen.” 

Hadiza bit her lip. “So I’m supposed to what? Let the world tear you apart? Maker!” She tugged at her hair, “I shouldn’t have let you go out there.”

“Hadiza.” Samson said firmly, “You sentenced me to serve the Inquisition until the day I died. Are you going to go back on your judgement and further undermine your own authority?”

Hadiza’s gaze was a guillotine’s drop on him and he felt the chill in the room drop lower as she considered him.

“So what? You want a harsher punishment?” She asked him, then reached to scratch at the veins on her left arm. “Want me to send you to the Approach to count how many grains of sand find their way into your breeches? To Emprise du Lion to freeze your balls off in Suledin Keep? Where do you want to go, Samson? To Weißhaupt to join the Wardens? Answer me, damn you.”

“Hadiza…cut that out,” he warned, “I am not asking you to rescind your judgement, though if that is your decision, no one will argue. Inquisitor and all that. But I’m telling you that you can’t intercede every time the world wants to take a bite out of my ass.”

“So self-flagellation is part of your penance.” Hadiza sneered, “Will you wallow in self-pity every time?”

Samson frowned, taking away his hands and rising to his feet.

“What have I done to you, Hadiza? To you personally, to deserve _that_ kind of talk?” Samson demanded, “They attacked and I defended. But the Bann was well within his rights to see me locked up. If for nothing else, for the murder of his men.”

“It wasn’t murder! And you are under my— _the Inquisition’s_ —aegis!” Hadiza’s voice was slightly hoarse and she stood to face him, “If he wished to try and convict you, he was obligated to seek my permission and approval first! You are mine!”

Samson glanced at her sharply. The words lashed between them like the tail of a demon, dwindling to smoke before the silence stretched in the wake of her words.

Hadiza swallowed hard. “ _I_ defeated you in battle, _I_ tried you, and _I_ judged you. And as you belong to the Inquisition, you are still my responsibility. If he wishes to be recompensed for the loss of his men, the Inquisition will gladly do so.” She turned away from him.

Samson thought he saw a flash of red in her eyes. With her back to him, he felt that growing worry in his gut again, prickling at the base of his skull. The serpent in his chest reared its head and began to hiss in warning.

“And if he wants your head on a pike,” she said dangerously, eyes glittering with the madness that now made itself known, “he will not so much as alert the headsman without my say so. Your head and your life are mine to—“ She rubbed her temples. 

Samson frowned. “Hadiza, what’s gotten into you? This doesn’t sound like you at all…” Hadiza glanced at him over her shoulder and he thought he saw, for a split second, a fanged grin, impossibly wide, curling the corner of her mouth upward.

“If the Bann continues to push,” and her voice sounded harsh and discordant, two pitches grinded against one another like harp strings snapping in succession, “then I will retaliate, and I will show him what it means when they say the Inquisition may act without approval or authority from the Chantry.”

“Do you want a fucking Exalted March called on your head, Hadiza? Are you mad?”

Samson watched as Hadiza turned to face him and he _knew_.

Dry of lyrium, his powers were weak, and she— _it_ —knew. Hadiza was quicker than her tired form belied, and Samson found himself pinned against the stone wall. Anyone who heard would attribute it to their usual bedchamber antics.

“Your life rests in my hands, Raleigh Samson,” she said in that same grinding noise of two voices competing for an outlet, “and believe me, you will wish Bann Teagan kept you locked in darkness when I finally deign to take it.”

Samson knew that when facing an abomination it was best not to panic. He had enough experience to know that panicking got one no where. He also knew that Hadiza was not fully possessed just yet. The encroachment on her arm was indicative of something far more complex than a routine possession. He saw something in her, some ghost of her, clawing from within the cage of her bones, struggling to retain control.

“She’s safe,” the demon assured him, “for the moment.” Samson said nothing in response, never breaking his gaze. He found that center within himself, the one all templars needed from which to draw their strength. While his faith was no longer what it was, it said nothing for the raw and nigh unparalleled skill the Order had bequeathed him. So when he looked at the demon wearing Hadiza’s skin, he felt no fear. Not for her.

And not for himself.

The Holy Smite came down without warning, a fist said to be of the Maker’s own forging, flattening Hadiza on the ground as the air and mana were drained from her. With the magic dispelled, Hadiza resumed control of her body, and he saw the significant change. Her eyes, fever bright, blinked, wide and fearful.

“Raleigh…?” Her voice was a tremulous whisper as he knelt before her, scooping her into his arms. He lay her down wordlessly, exhausted and wearied from the effort. Hadiza was quiet as what transpired began to dawn on her. Her hands trembled, going to her mouth, and she let out a broken sound, realizing what she had almost done. Samson was grim as he went to the door.

“Trevelyan!” He shouted when he spotted Aja leaving the undercroft. She jogged toward him, smiling jovially.

“Done already? Here I thought you two would be—“ Seeing his expression, Aja frowned, her smile fading. “What? What’s wrong?” Samson glanced back over his shoulder, and she stepped inside, shutting the door behind them.

“You didn’t tell me she was nearly possessed in the weeks I was gone!” Samson hissed. Aja startled.

“What?! That’s impossible! Feynriel—“

“Has failed to keep whatever this is at bay. Hadiza’s arm is withered with red poison, and she just tried to kill me.” Samson snapped, whirling on her. “Sometimes I wonder why the Circles were dissolved in moments like this. We need to get to Gwaren.”

Aja nodded. “The winter thaw will be soon. We can catch a ship out th—“

Samson stood up a little straighter, though it pained him to do so.

“No. We’re **done** fucking waiting. While we wait, Hadiza’s fucking flesh and bones have become a battleground, and she’s losing daily. We need to get to Gwaren and you better find something that can float us to Ostwick. We need to be gone _yesterday_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what it is. This marks the end of the second story arc.


	15. Beacon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I mean. It's whatever. I was kinda drunk when I wrote this chapter. My bad y'all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mirabai0821 came up with the slur 'mudskin' for Rivaini (Black) people in Thedas. She gave me permission to use it since I had no way of conveying skin-color discrimination in Thedas. 
> 
> And, I lied. This is the end of the second story arc.

Samson counted three years since he’d last been in the Marches, and when he’d left, he’d been half-mad with red lyrium coursing through his veins, and vengeance burning on his rough, unwashed tongue. Although the red no longer scorched through him, he could not readily say he had let go of his desire to see the Chantry pay for its crimes of negligence and lies. It did not burn on his tongue as it had two years prior, but he would not extend forgiveness when even now the templars were scattered to the winds, either by his own corrupting hand or from the Divine’s decree to dissolve the Circles. Three years since he breathed the warm, moist air of the Marcher coast, or smelled the soured stink of Kirkwall on the breeze, mingling with the stench of the bazaar.

In all his years, he’d never been to Ostwick, or anywhere really. But he’d heard stories. While it was not nearly as large as Starkhaven, its size was still formidable. Known for its dual-walls, high and mighty against the wind and rain of the coast, he wondered what trouble would find them within its demesne. The ship, a swift caravel called the _Siren’s Echo_ , was one of the few ships willing to brave the Waking Sea before the spring thaw, and her captain was a salty fellow named Farir. When asked what she had to do to convince them to sail, Aja had only given a tight smile and walked away from them to speak with the captain at length.

Ferelden’s coast fell away behind them as the ship drifted further out to sea, away from the harbor, away from dry land, until it dwindled in the early morning mist and they were well and truly underway. Quarters were cramped, given the ship’s size, and while it was far from comfortable, and no where near private, it was at least dry. Aja took to the sea as if she had been born to it, and quickly fell in with the rest of the crew, proving she was still a very capable sailor. She spent most of her time above, helping to tend to the task of keeping the sails mended. Captain Farir was rather impressed with her skill, but seeing the markings of warding limned on her dark skin, he understood that this was a life she had once lived and breathed. Hadiza, Feynriel, Vivienne, and Dorian spent most of their time below in the berthing, while Samson attempted to busy himself to keep from going mad.

He and Hadiza had not spoken since the incident in Skyhold.

To be fair, Hadiza was in no condition to do much, and Aja had to assure the captain and his first mate that her sister’s illness was not contagious, only debilitating. Now, she lay in a hammock below, tended to by Vivienne, who had somehow managed to make living in cramped quarters comfortable. The men gave her a wide berth, and some even managed to find other places to sleep if only to ensure Vivienne was left in peace.

“How do you manage to bend complete strangers to your will?” Dorian asked as Vivienne pressed her delicate fingers against Hadiza’s infected arm, using ice to beat back the fever. Dorian watched, worry on his brow as Vivienne inspected Hadiza for further infection. “An entire crew of hardened sailors falling all over themselves to ensure you are comfortable. You have stolen my dream.”

Vivienne let out a small laugh. “My dear if your dream is to have a crew of brigands and cutthroats bending over backwards to appease you during an uncomfortable sea voyage…might I advise setting your threshold a little higher?” Dorian gave her a thin smile, but his eyes sparkled with mirth. Vivienne brushed a lock of hair from Hadiza’s forehead, her thumb smoothing one of her elegant brows. 

Feynriel entered the berthing, bearing a small ewer of steaming water. “They had no cloth to spare, but I think we can make do with what we have between us.” Feynriel came to stand beside Vivienne, his expression crestfallen.

“I am sorry I could not do more to help your friend,” he continued, softly, “I did not expect the magic that binds her to be so complex. It is beyond my own skill to unravel.” Dorian placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, giving him a reassuring look. Vivienne sat up straight, composing herself, but she did not say anything. Her expression, however, was more than enough to let Feynriel know what she thought of his apostasy. Hadiza grunted in her sleep, attempting to curl in on herself, cradling her infected arm.

Dorian sighed. “It took an entire tincture of valerian and elfroot to get her to sleep. And Samson has been pulling double duty to ensure Hadiza’s magic remains contained. Where is that man, anyway?” Feynriel brightened a little, feeling as if this were something he could do to help. He gestured above, even as he reached into his pack to look for something to wrap Hadiza’s arm with.

Vivienne’s lip curled. “Brooding somewhere above decks, most likely,” she finally turned to face the two men, “do see to it that he comes below to attend. Regardless of how he feels about what happened, he has bound himself to her. If he wishes to make it to Ostwick, inform him that he will not gainsay his promise.”

Dorian laughed. “Yes, well, is it really a promise if one was impressed into service?” At Vivienne’s withering look he held up his hands. “At once, at once. The things I do for the beautiful women in this organization.” With a dramatic sigh, Dorian left, presumably to fetch Samson but Vivienne knew he’d find some reason to get sidetracked along the way. She would never understand Hadiza’s fascination with the man, but he was the only templar aboard the ship, and they needed him lucid and hale. Vivienne decided when Hadiza was well enough, she would finally speak with her at length about this…this little _interlude_ she and Samson were currently carrying on.

* * *

They were two weeks underway when the storm hit.

In truth, none of them could blame anyone but themselves…but they all blamed Samson anyway. He had been the one who pushed to leave before the spring thaw began, and Aja had tarried as long as she could, hoping the worst of the winter storms passed before she procured a ship. But after a few days, they had begun to relax, thinking that mayhap they’d struck luck with whatever primordial forces controlled the sea. Even Aja had grown somewhat complacent, confident that their voyage would pass without incident.

So when the angry thunderheads loomed around them, Aja cursed herself for forgetting the tantamount rule when putting oneself at the mercy of the elements. _You were_ ** _always_** _at the mercy of the elements, even when the elements favored you._

The waves grew larger, the troughs between each swell a little deeper, and Captain Farir was already barking orders to haul up the sails while his first mate, a dour man by the name of Arthur, took the helm. Samson and the Inquisition were ordered to stay below until the storm passed. Knowing he’d only get underfoot, he relented, but Aja stayed above to aid in the operation.

Being such a small vessel, the caravel already pitched and rolled along the waves, giving one a sense of weightlessness and uncertainty about the deck beneath their feet. In a storm, one could not trust the deck at all. Samson and Feynriel stumbled through the passageways, remorselessly shoved aside by irate sailors rushing to and fro to get to one compartment or another in preparation for the storm.

“Shit!” Samson hissed as he stumbled along the steps leading down to the berthing, catching himself against the bulkhead. Feynriel held onto his arm to steady both himself and the older man, only for the ship to roll starboard, sending them stumbling again.

“For fuck’s sake!” Samson snarled when he finally got his footing under him, trying to adopt the rolling gait of a sailor to follow the pitch and roll of the ship. Feynriel wanted to laugh, but the fact that there was a chance the sea and storm would shatter the small vessel to driftwood, flotsam, and jetsam, sobered him somewhat.

By the time they made it to the berthing, all was chaos. There was yelling above as sailor scrambled all over the ship to secure the sails, and Captain Farir ordered all hands to secure lifelines and nail down anything that wasn’t bolted to the deck. Samson cared nothing for the above, only that the rest of the Inquisition was below, save Aja.

“I hope you’re happy,” Dorian said snidely, “we’re all going to die for nothing for your impatience. Will someone explain why we listened to him?” Dorian glanced around for dramatic effect. Vivienne said nothing, but her dark gaze settled on Samson and he felt as if he had wandered into the sights of a hunter. She stripped away his bravado, shattered the thin glass of his confidence to probe and dissect the man beneath. She said nothing, but Samson heard her silent accusation all the same. Before he could continue to wallow in her knowing gaze, she glanced past him as an errant sailor stumbled into the room. He was soaked through from the rains, his brown hair stringy and thin around his hollowed face, his skin sallow. When he spoke, he revealed yellowed teeth, some already baring the encroachment of rot.

“Oy,” he said with no preamble, “Capn’ wants the mages on the quarterdeck right now.”

“Whatever for?” Vivienne mused, “Is there to be a battle?” The sailor’s lip curled in a sneer at her, and Vivienne never once flinched. Then, he turned his gaze to Dorian.

“Don’t question the Capn’. Just said he needs mages on the quarterdeck. You, the knife-ear, and the two mudskin magic-slingers are gonna go to the quarterdeck, or the Capn’ will deep six you.” Samson frowned. He’d heard that word before…and never was it said kindly. At Vivienne’s expression, he got nothing, but Dorian’s eyes blazed.

“The Inquisitor is in no condition to fight.” Vivienne said, rising to her feet with consummate grace. The pitch and roll of the ship didn’t even sway her. “Your Captain shall have to settle for the services of myself and Altus Pavus.” She made a graceful gesture with her hand, indicating Dorian. Samson smiled. Usually, he hated the displays of power and cock-strutting the wealthy put on, but after this sailor’s disrespect, he applauded Vivienne. Dorian fixed the sailor with his best imperious stare, as if the sailor were but mud to be flicked away on a whim. The sailor’s eyes, reddened from the rain, fell to Hadiza, who lay asleep in her hammock.

“Alright, but if the Capn’ decides to toss you to the sharks, don’t cry about it.” He turned, presumably to lead the way and Vivienne and Dorian followed, with Feynriel casting a remorseful glance to Hadiza, before he went after them. Samson sighed and for once was glad he wasn’t a mage. Above, the storm raged on, and he sat beside Hadiza’s hammock and allowed himself to lean forward, resting his head on her shoulder. He didn’t remember closing his eyes, but eventually the sounds of the sea surging against the hull of the ship, combined with the rhythm of the vessel’s ceaseless movement at the sea’s whim, served to lull him into a dreamless darkness. He was only just begin to fall deeply into sleep when he was shaken awake.

“Samson!” It was Feynriel and Samson looked up, bleary-eyed and unfocused, until he saw the blood splattered along the side of the boy’s head. Samson roused quickly, drawing on templar training that had become more difficult to rely on at his age. Feynriel seemed unharmed, and for a moment Samson was relieved.

“What the hell happened?” He demanded, and Feynriel grimaced, glancing at Hadiza.

“We need a healer. None of us are skilled in the art, but she is.” He explained and Samson’s nostrils flared.

“No.” He said, “Her magic is unstable. She can barely stand up on her own right now…there is a fucking storm—“

“I can do it.” Hadiza’s voice was hoarse from disuse, but it carried. Both men glanced down at her, where she tried to sit up, her arms trembling as she fought with the hammock. “I can do it.” She said again. Samson shook his head.

“Your arm…” He warned and Hadiza instinctively tugged her sleeve down to hide the withering the red veins had caused. She sighed, and then struggled to get out of the hammock. Samson was quick to assist her, easing her bare feet down on the deck as she swayed, unsteady. Feynriel went to fetch her coat and boots from the chest bolted to the deck, and Samson helped her dress.

“It is a fair distance to the forecastle,” Feynriel explained as they made their way into the passageway, heading for the stairs leading above decks. “I am deeply sorry for this, Inquisitor.” He did not glance over his shoulder, but he swore he felt her weak smile.

“No trouble,” she murmured, clinging to Samson for support, “just…just take me to whomever needs tending.”

* * *

 

The damage from the storm was not nearly as bad as it looked, but it was bad enough.

The caravel was not designed to traverse such treacherous seas, but allowances could be made with the right modifications. Captain Farir, who was respected both as a merchant and a smuggler, had taken such precautions. But all sailors knew that every safe crossing of the waters was the sea’s whim and not their own hard-learned ingenuity. Thus, when they ascended onto the weatherdeck, seeing the mizzenmast splintered and the sails in tatters, Samson began to worry. The worst of the storm was behind them, but the clouds still bared their proverbial teeth in the form of lightning, signifying that the whim of the sea could always shift unfavorably.

Three sailors had been pitched overboard in the effort to secure the ship’s sails.

Samson followed Feynriel to the forecastle, where a crowd of sailors were arrayed around a fallen figure. When Samson barked to ‘make a hole’, they responded with alacrity, parting to reveal the captain’s first mate, clutching his side, which had been pierced by a large splinter from the mizzenmast, hurled by a snapped line. Hadiza’s face was grim, hollowed as it was, as she quickly assessed the damage with her skilled eyes. Samson would have carried her the rest of the way but she shoved him aside to make her way to the first mate, where she knelt by his side, grunting from the effort.

“Inquisitor…” He croaked, “…finally decided to join us in the land of the living, I see…” He coughed, and Hadiza’s eyes narrowed, listening for signs of the ‘death rattle.’

“Yes,” she said gently, “I was pulled out of a fever dream for this. Hold still, serah.” She held her hands over the older man’s body, and then breathed deep, filling her lungs with fear, apprehension, and uncertainty; all of the things that could ascertain death. And then she exhaled, and her hands were enveloped in soft blue light.

“What…?” He blinked, his gaze cloudy, “You just recruited a buncha mages…”

“Shh.” Hadiza said, “Do not speak.” Though she gave a command, her inflection on the words was gentle but insistent. The boatswain smiled weakly, groaning as he felt her magic probe through him. Hadiza felt her mana drain little by little, siphoning the top of it in order to complete her inspection. If he was badly wounded, she would be pressed for time. If not, she could easily mend the torn flesh with minimal scarring. She concentrated, blocking out the baited breath silence of the sailors around her. Samson watched her intently, wondering if she was strong enough for this kind of stunt, but knowing he was a fool to doubt her. Hadiza wouldn’t let a man die just because she herself was ill. Maker damn her stubbornness.

“Alright,” Hadiza murmured, slightly winded, “none of your vital organs have been harmed, serah. You are a very lucky man…” She lowered her hands until they rested on the bloody wound, and the boatswain watched her face as she began the spell. He felt his limbs melt beneath the warmth of the healing magic, felt the pain in his side dim and dim until it was but a distant echo, dull and quiet. Hadiza’s hands were covered in his blood, and yet the flesh beneath knit itself anew, blood vessels mending, muscle and soft tissue regenerating, and skin sealing the puncture, laving only the blood in its wake. The boatswain breathed deeply, testing the result and finding no pain to shorten his breath.

“You should be more careful, serah.” Hadiza said with a tired smile. The boatswain laughed, sitting up and wincing from the bruises on his backside. Hadiza sat back on her heels, swaying like an uncertain serpent, eyes fluttering. Samson took a step forward and then halted. Her magic had dwindled once the spell was over, but he felt it…the tingle in the base of his skull as mana was drawn to the surface and magical energy began to charge.

“Oy,” one of the sailors said, “what’s all that with her hand?” Samson felt dread overcome him as Hadiza sat in stillness, and her left hand began to glow. There was a sound, deep and buzzing, growing higher in pitch and louder in volume. Hadiza lifted her hand at the same time Samson cried out: “GET BACK, NOW!”

It was too late. Hadiza’s hand gathered the charged energy of the Anchor, and it exploded in a shower of verdant light, ending in a crackling hiss.


	16. BOOK III: Dissonance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In music theory, dissonant chords are combinations that sound jarring, like middle C and the C sharp above (a minor second). Basically, the shit sounds awful and jarring with the rest of the composition, but some composers think that's hot shit so whatever (I'm a fan of everything harmonizing so I'm #TeamConsonance). That is the theme for this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was feeling some type of way and made a damn fanmix for my version of Samson. Check out '[As Charged](http://8tracks.com/capriciousmuse/as-charged)' on 8Tracks.

The storm passed as all things eventually must. Captain Farir prided himself on being a skilled sailor and a reasonable captain as such things went, and because the Inquisitor had saved Arthur’s life, he predicated their continued stay aboard his ship on that. So when Hadiza’s hand exploded, Samson had been there to neutralize the magic once he’d gotten back to his feet. However, Hadiza was to be confined as sick-in-quarters for the remainder of the voyage, an order none of the Inquisition’s members sought to countermand.

Eventually, they reached Ostwick, and Captain Farir was not sorry to see them go, casting a withering glance to Aja, who met his gaze impassively. She was many things, but she’d not turn against her sister for ruining her standing with a sea captain. There were plenty of others who would be willing to take them on. So they disembarked, weary and sick from the voyage, and turned toward the mighty city before them.

Samson was impressed to say the least. Ostwick may not have been Starkhaven, but it could nearly rival it in size. As they walked, keeping Hadiza hooded and cloaked, using one of her plainer staves as support, Samson took in the sights and smells of the city. Here was the city where his lady was born, and Samson surprised himself at the sentiment.

_‘Your lady’, huh?_ He thought guiltily, _How long will that last when you come face to face with the Bann?_

Samson frowned. He hadn’t even thought on what Hadiza’s father would think to see him here, walking bareheaded and free, and on the arm of his eldest. Shit, now that he began thinking about it, he felt dread spread cold fingers through his gut and chest, making his breathing a little harder.

“We should find lodging for the night,” Aja said as they made their way further into the city, “It is a fair distance to the estate, and…” She glanced at the assembled party. Vivienne was composed, but not entirely untouched by the salt of the sea. Dorian’s skin was a little darker for the days when the sun dared to shine, but his usually biting witticisms were silent. Feynriel looked like a rabbit ready to bolt but too tired to do so. HHadiza, beneath the heavy, salt-stiffened cowl of her cloak, looked as if she had one foot in the grave and Samson just looked more weary than usual.

They were all exhausted.

“Alright,” Aja said gently, “let’s find somewhere to put up for the night, give ourselves some time to recover from the voyage. I’ll send word to the Bann that we’re coming.” Aja swore she heard a collective sigh of relief from all assembled, but ignored it. As they made their way into the city, it grew quieter the farther from the docks they moved, and the streets grew wider, more well-paved, and even cleaner. Aja seemed to be looking for somewhere in particular as they passed through an avenue of archways, intricately decorated and embellished with flowering vines, bearing the city’s crest at the apex. Samson felt increasingly more ill at ease as they threaded through the city, but he also was awed. This was very different from Kirkwall—a far cry, even. Hightown had its own wide avenues and archways, but Kirkwall was a severe and dour city carved into the cliff faces and mountainsides by slaves whose long-dead bones held its foundations together. Kirkwall was a city that once drank blood in great fountains, tainted by the Ancient Imperium’s tyrannical rule. As much as Samson had come to love Kirkwall, he could not deny that it was the least favorable of the Free Marcher city-states.

Ostwick looked like what Hightown wanted to be, only with more space to sprawl and stretch. Domed roofs crowned with elegant points pierced the slate gray sky, and a cold, moist wind passed through the wide avenues, making his teeth chatter but not biting his nose with chill. Aja came to a halt before a small building nestled between two shops. There were beds of flowers hanging from the windows, and the front door was a vivid green in color, accented with soft gold. A wreath of dried flowers hung on the door, giving off a faint fragrance, spicy and foreign to Samson.

“How…quaint,” Dorian said and meant nothing of the sort, “we’re going to lodge in a brothel.”

* * *

As it turned out, the ‘brothel’ was across the street, and its door was red. Aja smiled smugly as they passed into the inn, and were greeted by a stout man by the name of Thomas, who took one look at Aja and wrinkled his nose.

“We do not serve brigands here, serah,” he said imperiously, and though Aja stood nearly a head taller than him, he still found a way to turn up his nose at her, “and certainly not brigands of your… _kind_.” Aja raised a brow and reached beneath her shirt to fish something out. She withdrew a long silver chain, strung with a heavy gold ring. This, she presented to the concierge with a half-smirk.

“Mayhap you do not serve brigands of my _kind_ , ser” she said in an inflection that surprised Samson and even Vivienne looked impressed, “but you can, do, and _will_ serve a scion of House Trevelyan.” Thomas examined the ring, and the Trevelyan crest seemed to stare back at him, daring him to gainsay her. An unkind word from a noble house could tank a business in Ostwick, and Thomas would not risk his hide on such a chance.

“Yes…” He said slowly, handing her back the ring, which she slipped back over her head and beneath her shirt, “We are of course honored that you would grace us with your presence, Lady Trevelyan, and are always happy to serve. How long shall you and your guests be lodging with us?” Aja glanced back at her companions, assessing them silently before she turned back to Thomas, who looked as pleasant as he could manage, begrudging having to give succor to a…one of her kind.

“As long as you can hold us,” Aja said at last, “or at least until the Bann arrives to escort us to the Estate.” She playfully nudged Thomas, who bore it with equal parts feigned dignity and equal parts fury. Aja laughed, gold canines glinting in the ambient light of the foyer. Samson wanted to laugh too, but was too tired to remember how to fix his face, but he promised if he ever had coin of his own, he’d buy the woman a damned drink for this night.

After the arrangements were made, they were assigned rooms, all of which were moderate to lavishly appointed. Aja opted for humility, and so took the simplest room for herself. Vivienne had already begun the task of running the in-house staff ragged until her room had been cleaned and arranged to her exacting specifications. Samson and Hadiza shared a room, while Feynriel and Dorian shared another. For the most part, it was the most comfort any of them had had since they left for Gwaren weeks prior, and so no one begrudged Vivienne her demands.

Night fell, and the group took a meal in the common room.

“So,” Dorian asked as he pulled apart a soft chunk of bread, drizzled in olive oil, “what exactly can we expect from your father, Lady Trevelyan? And why did he never come to Skyhold when we had need of his aid? Very rude, you know, not participating in the whole saving the world bit and leaving it to his daughters.”

Vivienne idly took a sip of the wine from the goblet and then made a face before she quietly spit it back into the goblet and set it aside.

“For all that bluster,” she said, “they still insult us by serving actual swill in place of real wine. Or is this a common Free Marcher tradition?” She met Aja’s gaze, a glint of amusement in her eyes. Aja shrugged casually, and took a bite of her bread.

“I’d say it is,” Dorian replied, “they are very close to Ferelden, after all. Can’t blame them if all they’ve ever tasted in life is a step above goat piss.” Samson had already cleaned his plate, paying the mage little heed. Hadiza poked at her food with a fork, staring at it as if she were expecting it to come to life, or attempting to revive it.

“Diza…” Aja said softly, resting a hand on her shoulder. Hadiza looked up, blinked slowly, and then heaved a sigh, pushing her plate away. She said nothing to any of the assembled party, and left the table to return to her room. Dorian watched her go, looking considerably pained.

“She is truly ill if she didn’t eat anything,” he said, “which one of us will be the one to force her to eat?” At that, all eyes turned to Samson, who met their gazes with an intense frown, brows drawn together, and his lips turned downward.

“Going to sacrifice me on the pyre?” He demanded. No one answered him, but before Samson could rise to his feet, Vivienne halted him. She gave him a thin smile.

“I shall go,” she said rising with that liquid grace that was so inured to her, “none of you seem to have the finesse necessary to handle such a delicate situation. Samson,” her eyes glittered as her gaze settled on him and Samson felt a child in her eyes for all the years he likely had on her, “see to it that further interaction is not as hamfisted as it has been up until now.” With that, Vivienne followed after Hadiza, leaving the scent of powdery perfume in her wake.

Dorian turned to the rest. “Well, that was pleasant,” he said with a wan smile, “shall we all retire? Or are we going to see how long and awkward this silence can get before one of us leaves?” Aja smirked into her wine goblet, silver eyes crinkling at the corners. Feynriel rose, awkward and out of place, as if his time abroad had been spent with stars above and ground below, rather than the silk trappings of a fine inn.

“I think I’ll head to sleep, at least,” he laughed, “I will need to if I am to monitor the In— _Hadiza’s_ dreams. Good night.” He sketched an awkward bow, making Aja laugh, and left the table. Aja drained the remainder of her wine and set the goblet down. Dorian’s expression turned pensive, and for a moment Aja watched him. He seemed as if his thoughts were miles from this place, turned inward.

“Aja,” he said after a moment, in a low voice, pitched just enough for their conversation to appear intimate, “I don’t have to tell you what happens if no answer is found.” Aja glanced toward the staircase leading up to the private rooms of patrons. Her nostrils flared slightly, her lips set in a neutral line, but her fingers tightened in a grip at the edge of the table as the only sign of tension in her body.

“No, you don’t,” she said at last, and then turned her head to meet his eyes, “but we won’t let it come to that, will we?”

Dorian smiled at her, all mischief and intrigue. “We most certainly will not, my lady.”

Samson sighed, and hoped they could make good on such boasts.

* * *

 

 Vivienne knew Hadiza wasn’t sleeping the moment she reached the door, and saw her shadow pacing to and fro, heard the unintelligible muttering, and then a muffled curse. Quietly, Vivienne dipped her head and shut her eyes.

All mages were taught in the Circle how to draw mana without disturbing the air around them with residual magical energy. The Fade siphoned through the warp in the Veil a mage created like a nebulous cloud, and the mage spun this ‘cloud’ into whatever they wished. Vivienne had mastered the finesse necessary to gather large amounts of power in a short time at a very young age. Irrespective of her opinions of the Circles, she had come into her magic like adolescence to womanhood. She drew from the well of power within herself, raised her hand and gave three, elegant knocks.

Hadiza opened the door, poking her head out.

“Vivienne!” She said brightly, although her face still looked weary and haggard, “Is something wrong?” Vivienne did not smile or respond and instead waited. For a moment, Hadiza watched her, but her eyes were off; too sharp, too focused, too _predatory_. She watched Vivienne as if she were weighing and measuring a potential foe, and Vivienne’s face never changed, even when she felt the whisper-soft touch of the Veil being warped as Hadiza gathered her own power. Finally, after a moment, Hadiza opened the door a little wider and let Vivienne inside.

“You do realize that your father is unaware of your little romance, yes?” Vivienne asked, walking slowly and making a face at the curtains draped over the far window. Honestly, jacquard print? Disgustingly out of season. She did not face Hadiza, who still stood just in front of the door.

“It would be wise to consider the consequences of your actions, Hadiza,” Vivienne ran a fingertip over the armoire’s side, and glanced at her finger before rubbing whatever she saw between it and her thumb, “while Skyhold may be content with Samson’s path to reform, the rest of the world has suffered for his actions. This could be easily overlooked were he not Corypheus’ second-in-command.”

“What are you saying?” Hadiza asked tiredly, “That I should go back on my judgement and kill him?” She rubbed her infected arm wearily and Vivienne pivoting swiftly, chuckling dryly.

“Nothing so crude as all that, my dear,” she said, glancing toward the pair of high-backed chairs arrayed around a coffee table and a well-worn tea set. “I am simply offering you advice as I always have. Samson is a criminal—a wanted criminal—regardless of how the two of you may feel about one another. And from what I have seen, that is a great deal. But love is a foolish sentiment to cling to in your position. It is not like the stories in your beloved books. We have already tasted what the world thinks of your love in Ferelden’s foolish and brash attempt to circumvent your authority. Do you think Orlais is not awaiting the opportunity to take him from you as well?”

Hadiza frowned, her pride and her heart stung by the truth’s whip. “I have thought on it. It’s why I am taking him far from Ferelden and Orlais.”

Vivienne’s eyes narrowed. “And have you discussed it with him? Have you asked him how he feels about your interceding on his behalf?” Hadiza’s brow knit.

“Yes! He told me to…” She looked away at Vivienne’s impassive expression, “…he told me to stop trying to save him from his own consequences.”

“And he is absolutely right, my dear,” Vivienne said promptly, “you cannot boast to have redeemed him and then intercede on his path to redemption. He has done this world a profound wrong, and he must pay for it one way or the other. And that payment may be extracted in ways you may not like.”

Hadiza’s hands balled into fists. “What was I supposed to do, Vivienne? Leave him to rot in a Ferelden prison? Let them execute him? You said yourself they countermanded my authority. He’s an agent of the Inquisition. And I’m…”

“…The Inquisitor.” Vivienne finished, her face hard, “And you need to act like it.”

For a while, there was only a tense silence between the two women, and Hadiza was tempted, so very tempted to say something cruel, to dredge up Bastien’s ghost, to tell Vivienne that her heart did not have to be hard because she had lost love. Hadiza felt trapped in her own skin. The trappings of the Inquisitor were a noose and a cage alike, and by linking her hands in Samson’s—by _loving_ him—she had tightened the noose on her neck. She was a target, and so was he.

He was a weakness.

“You begin to understand,” Vivienne said at last, and her expression softened as she closed the distance between herself and the younger mage, “you begin to understand what it means for women like us who dare to love. As romantic as it is: you a mage, he a templar, you the hero, and he the villain, you cannot allow it to ruin what you have built. And he must, whether you are by his side or no, walk the path you have chosen for him.”

Hadiza wanted to cry, but she was too tired to summon the grief she felt. “And if they tear him apart? If they kill him? Would it all have been for nothing?” She rubbed her nose to quell the burning in it.

For those who thought Vivienne to be as iron as her moniker, they did not see how her dark eyes softened, how she saw so much of her younger self in the Inquisitor, who loved too fiercely and recklessly, whose heart was too soft for the demands of her duty. Tentatively, Vivienne rested her hands on Hadiza’s shoulders.

“No,” she said sadly, “but you will have stuck by your principles and he will have lived the life he wanted.” She glanced around, “Aside, he said himself that if you did not take his head, then the corruption would take him soon enough.”

“I’ll find a way to stop it.” Hadiza said fiercely, “I’ve already slowed it down.” Vivienne felt her heart break a little, but said nothing in response. Instead, she leaned forward, pressing her lips to Hadiza’s forehead.

“Harden your heart against your enemies,” she warned, “not all of them come baring steel. Some even come bearing gifts.” She smoothed Hadiza’s hair from her forehead, her fingers cool against fevered skin. Hadiza frowned.

“Another rule of the Game? All the way here in the Marches?” She retorted. Vivienne laughed.

“My dear, the Game is not just played in Orlais. And for women who look like you and I, there are an entirely different set of rules and guidelines we must navigate. Remember: your title is not bound to one country or nation. You are an entity, at the head of an organization that rivals the countries it straddles. The Game is always in play.”

Hadiza nodded, somewhat sobered by the truth. Vivienne glanced toward the door.

“I wager you and your tired templar have much to discuss before we are to meet the Bann.” She made her way toward the door, “Oh, and lest I forget…if you ever deign to use her to harm her own friends ever again, I will turn you to ash.”

The predatory hardness from earlier returned to Hadiza’s eyes, and for a moment, there was a shift in her face, as if the very geography of her body was working to arrange itself into something the entity wanted to appear as.

“She’s strong,” came the grinding notes of twinned voices, “but she is leashed to me of her own volition.”

Vivienne raised a brow. “A leash can be pulled at either end, darling. And from what I have seen, the Inquisitor has slain countless numbers of your kind. You would do well to mind yourself.”

She did not wait for a reply, even as Hadiza wrestled for control of her own body and Vivienne left, shooting a subtle glance at Samson as she passed him. Samson stepped into the room as Hadiza quelled the poison in her body, stumbling and leaning against the bed for support. Samson felt the tingle of magic on the base of his skull and wondered what the hell happened in this room that the Veil was so warped.

“It’s getting worse.” He said without preamble and Hadiza met his gaze and burst into tears, but not because of her encroaching possession. Samson knew what he had to do, and so he did it: he held her. His arms came around her gently, and he pulled her close, still apprehensive even after all this time. She smelled like the sea, like fresh-turned earth, and then there was her natural scent, something subtle and warm that he could not quite place. He buried his face in her hair, shut his eyes, and let her cry, and when she was done, when she was cleansed of it, he kissed her forehead.

“You swore me to your service, Inquisitor,” he told her, “and I refuse to fail in this.”

Hadiza let out a broken laugh. “Don’t, Raleigh. Don’t call me that right now.” His brow furrowed, eyes narrowing in silent inquiry.

“I don’t want to be the Inquisitor right now,” she insisted, “Skyhold is…Skyhold is an entire sea and leagues away. Can I just be Hadiza again? The silly Circle mage who thought she could save the world?”

Samson smiled grimly. “Has it ever dawned on you that you can be both? And that you _did_ save the world?” _And me, even when I didn’t want to be saved. No prophet, you, but much better than the salvation of the Chantry_. Samson brushed his thumb along the line of her cheekbone. Her skin was dull and dry, and he feared it would tear like aged parchment if he touched her too roughly.

“I know but…” She bit her lip, “I’m failing right now. I’m half-possessed, and my arm is rotting off from what Dagna says isn’t red lyrium corruption. What if…what if there’s no way to stop it from killing me?” She lifted her infected arm, the skin netted with thin, glowing red veins that spread from her fingertips to her elbow. The glow pulsed beneath her skin, which was withered and dry, as if the Anchor sought to consume her from within to without. Samson touched it tentatively, and thought of the price they had all paid for their mistakes. He should have talked her out of it. He shouldn’t have let her be so reckless with her magic. Let one of the rebel mages pay the price, but not her.

He shook his head. That was selfish of him. Hadiza could handle this, and so could he. Any other mage would have succumbed, but not her. Not his Inquisitor, who’d faced him in battle with all the ferocity of a provoked predator, fearless and proud. Even as he’d hurled the most vile insults at her, they rolled from her like water off a duck’s back, and she’d even smiled at him. For some reason, he remembered their first and only battle fondly.

“What did Vivienne want?” He asked her and she sighed, which was answer enough so he pried no further. Instead, he nudged her, then jerked his chin toward the large copper tub separated by a folding screen. Hadiza smiled and wordlessly made her way toward it. Much like her bath at Skyhold, the water was pumped through a cistern. Dwarven engineering heated the water through pipes, fed by boilers in the basement of the establishment. The water was drained and then cycled out everyday through a complex purification process. It was very expensive and elaborate and Hadiza knew why Samson wanted her to do it.

There was no burden she found that a hot bath could not make easier to bear. And so Hadiza drew her bath and sat in the cloud of steam, letting the heat sooth the ache and stiffness of her muscles, and even the subtle itch of her left arm, the scabs and scratches softened by the water, making her nerves sing in pain. Samson helped her bathe, sitting on a stool to lather her hair. She’d taught him how to wash her hair, which he did so tenderly, smiling as he saw a bit of _her_ beneath the wearied, aged woman before him. She began to look like herself again, where he couldn’t place her age, her skin youthful and glowing, her hair glossy and full. She shut her eyes and leaned back as he poured an ewer of water over her head, rinsing her hair before resuming the scalp massage.

“I suppose…” She murmured, a groan in her voice, “…there is a benefit to having you in my service…aaaahhh…” Samson grinned, leaning forward to kiss her parted lips. Hadiza’s tongue darted out and slid along his bottom lip and he felt the hand of desire grip him. Not now…not now. 

Samson pulled away. “Benefit, yes,” he said, catching his breath, “but I don’t think it’s wise for me to be servicing you in your condition.”

Hadiza’s eyes snapped open, as clear and icy as winter.

“Strange…” Came the discordant twinned voices, fading in and out of Hadiza’s own, “…is this what desire is? Or love?” Samson leapt to his feet, cursing himself for letting his guard down. Hadiza remained where she was, as still as death, still gazing up at the ceiling. Her arms lifted, languid and inhuman, and she hoisted herself upright, turning partially to look at him.

“The black one was right,” the demon said, “the leash can be pulled from either end.” Samson instinctively reached for his sword, and remembered that he’d left it on the other side of the room next to his armor. Fool! The demon watched him, unblinking, wearing Hadiza’s face like she was an impassive mask. There was nothing human about her expression, and there was a hardness to her that he knew wasn’t her at all. No, his Hadiza was soft, pliant, yielding and unbreakable. This demon wore her as if she were armor…and indeed she was. Samson could not bring himself to harm her or kill her.

“You are in no danger from me, Knight Templar Samson,” the discordant voices said serenely, “I merely wanted to sip from the cup of humanity.” Hadiza’s body moved, serpentine and preternatural, skin glossy from soap and water as she rose, leaning closer to him. “In that, you and I are alike, aren’t you?”

And then the demon was gone, blinked away as the humanity returned to her silver eyes. Hadiza knew, and so did Samson, that she was running out of time.

“I can’t hold it much longer…” She whispered, “Whatever answer my father has for us, we need it, now. Or I will soon be lost to you.”

Samson wished, in that moment, that she had killed him a year ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to y'all still silently reading (and hate-reading) this awful piece of shit I call a labor of love. Feel free to leave all of your shit in the comments sections or whatever.


	17. Bridges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Familial politics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter is the theme. It's simply a bridge to the next one.

The morning brought with it the smell of warm bread and the quiet, chattering bustle of patrons partaking breakfast in the common area. Hadiza ate with a limited appetite, but she did eat, and her companions took it as a good sign. Vivienne and Samson exchanged a brief glance, an unspoken knowing between them before they returned to their respective plates. Aja leaned back in her chair, listening to the rousing of the market district outside.

“Diza,” Aja began and her sister glanced up briefly, “there’s something you should know, about father, before we get to the Estate.” Hadiza blinked, her face scrunched in a silent question. Aja seemed nervous, as if she were loathe to part with the news, but she knew it was better to strike the blow now than wait for the ice water shock when they reached the Trevelyan Estate.

“After mother died, the Council of Twelve convened after the mourning period,” Aja steepled her fingers, and it was clear it was difficult for her to wrestle with the memory, “in order to ensure House Trevelyan’s continued line, he was pressed to remarry.”

Hadiza’s fork froze halfway to her mouth for a brief instant, and after the moment, she resumed eating.

“They chose one of the lesser Houses, of course, as none of the Twelve wished to bind their pure and sacrosanct bloodline to anyone who cavorted with…” Aja glanced up, looking around the table. Feynriel looked puzzled.

“I don’t understand, why would they not simply offer one of their own daughters or widows to strengthen their alliance?” Dorian asked and Aja looked stone faced, remembering the conflict it caused in the house when it happened. Hadiza swallowed hard. She had been but an adolescent when she went to the Circle, but snatches of conversation heard in secluded corners during the many parties her mother threw in an effort to network with the Twelve Houses of Ostwick, came to her in a rush. As a child, she did not understand the context of these conversations, but now, a woman grown, she knew what Aja spoke of.

“So he married a woman of lesser influence,” Hadiza finished, “because no one wants to associate with a House tainted by the line of a ‘ _heathen Rivaini witch_.’” Her voice grew brittle and bitter. Aja nodded. Of course, the actual phrasing was far kinder than what had been said, but that was it. Vivienne’s expression remained unreadable, but she stole a glance at both the sisters briefly. Samson rubbed his freshly shaved chin.

“I don’t follow,” he said, “what’s that got to do with us?”

“It doesn’t.” Hadiza said shortly. “Just means things in the house may have changed is all. Father will not rescind his offer to help. Not when his new potential heir is still too young to assume much responsibility.” She set her fork down, her appetite fleeing with the minutes that ticked by, “Is that not so, Aja?”

Aja nodded. “It is so. In fact, his new wife—not so new, now, mind you—gave birth to a baby boy a few years after you went to the Circle. He would be about…” Aja counted on her fingers, “…ten, now, I believe?”

Hadiza took a deep pull of her drink. “At least mother’s ashes were cold before he took a wife and decided to sire himself an heir. So I take it his reinstatement of my inheritance was a lure to curry favor with the Inquisition?”

“When you bought Ariadne’s contract out and made her a free agent instead of exclusive to House Trevelyan—“

Hadiza slammed her hands on the table. “She is not a damned object! She…she is our _sister_ , Aja. I could not let him continue to use her in that way.”

Aja traced her mouth with her fingers, working her jaw and sucking her teeth. “True,” she said, “but you slighted him, and publicly. You know how father is about scandal. The Twelve wouldn’t shut up about it for months afterward. Called him a thug and a pimp for using Ariadne as a weapon.”

Dorian’s eyes grew wide. “Are you sure he’s not been rubbing elbows with your Tevinter kin?” At that, Aja let out a dry laugh.

“Nothing public. His image as a goodly Andrastian was smeared by that stunt, but it blew over, as all things eventually do. But I thought I should warn you, Hadiza. His offer to help no doubt has barbs attached.”

Hadiza sighed. “So he disinherited us both, I take it? And his new wife? She looks nothing like…us, does she?”

Aja said nothing, but her silence was answer enough. Hadiza slammed her cup down on the table, pushed her chair back roughly, and stood, going to her room. Aja took a deep breath, and then sighed.

“Just what sort of fresh hell are we walking into?” Samson asked her and Aja shook her head.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about that,” Aja laughed, “because father is really going to lose his collective shit when he sees you on her arm instead of golden boy templar. Fuck I do not want to miss that.” She began to laugh, but it was bitter and dry, biting, an attempt to cover her own wounds. 

“But he won’t be on her arm, will he?” Vivienne said cooly, more statement than inquest. She stirred her tea with an elegant hand, with nary a sound of the spoon scraping the porcelain, even as she met Samson’s eyes. 

Samson ran his hands over his face. “I’m too old for this shit.” He muttered, and not for the first time.

Feynriel smiled. “Well, at least he has not withdrawn his offer to help. Perhaps it is not so bad as it sounds, even though I fail to understand…” Aja smiled at the lad, all fangs.

“Oh you sweet summer child. Prepare to be initiated into familial politics.”

* * *

The Bann’s coaches arrived to fetch them that afternoon. Aja saw to the payment of their stay at the inn, while their belongings were loaded. Not one but two footmen offered to help Vivienne into her coach, and she spared them not even a sideways glance, even as they struggled to keep their countenance in the face of the Lady of Iron. For Hadiza’s sake, she rode alone with Aja in a coach, while Samson, Dorian, and Feynriel rode together.

The ride was not long, but it was long enough for Aja to brief Hadiza on the situation in their household.

“So father finally married a woman who would allow him to climb the ranks of the Twelve, eh?” Hadiza asked, but her sneer was evident.

Aja laughed. “Try not to be so excited. You remember how mother was ridiculed and lambasted. She shielded us from most of it, but I saw what it was like for her as I grew older.” Aja’s face softened, her eyes growing distant, remembering a time she both wished to wipe from memory and cling to for cold comfort. “Even if I had turned out ‘right’, they never would have been able to marry me off, even to an insignificant lordling.”

Hadiza frowned. “What do you mean?”

Aja’s gaze sharpened, and she cut her eyes to her sister. “I mean that even if I were interested in the opposite sex, they would have had trouble marrying me off. The Twelve already struck a great blow against father when he opted to marry a Rivaini woman, even though she was of high birth. And they tolerated it. But just because they tolerated it from him, did not mean they would pollute their own bloodlines…with mudskin blood.”

Hadiza felt her chest grow hollow at the slur, and she looked away. She’d grown up hearing the word used often, especially by her father’s peers and colleagues. She did not understand it then, but she knew it was an unkind word from the way her father turned steely, and her mother looked angry, silver eyes blazing. Even in the Circle, Hadiza had heard the word in snatches of whispering, but she’d been so isolated she did not bear the consequences of it.

“So he found himself a pale and cool blonde to marry,” Aja continued, “and no doubt he spent many nights praying to the Maker that his firstborn to this woman came out like her and not…”

“…Like us.” Hadiza whispered. “Were his prayers answered? Does the Maker think so little of us ‘mudskins’ as well that he would grant our pious father this one, desperate wish?” Aja felt her sister’s bitterness keenly, for it was the same bitterness she herself had felt long ago, when the marriage contract had scarce dried, andthe peony petals from the wedding ceremony had not even been swept away from the pavilion. Aja knew this bitterness because it had been an integral part of her tongue for many years. While she faded farther and farther to the background, the last stamp of shame her father no longer had to bear with the birth of his new son, that bitterness had grown stronger, and it hardened her. In time, she knew, it would harden Hadiza as well.

“He’s not as pale, but he will pass.” Aja answered. Hadiza looked down at her hands, the left was gloved, obscuring her infection, the right was delicate, slender and dark. Idly, she cast harmless faerie fire around her fingers, illuminating her skin in soft, white light.

“I have saved the world twice-over,” she whispered, “and to think I return to my childhood home to see that none of that matters because I am the wrong color.”

Aja laughed. “Funny how the world works, isn’t it?”

* * *

 

 The coaches pulled through the elegantly wrought iron gates of the Trevelyan Estate just before dusk. The paved drive provided a pleasant grinding sound beneath them, taking them toward the sprawling home of Hadiza’s birth. It had been nearly 17 years since she last laid eyes upon it, and for all that, she did not deign to so much as twitch open the curtain and see what changed. The fountain in front of the house was dry, and the closer they pulled toward the main house, the less dazzling it seemed up close. The cream colored home that seemed so crisp from far away seemed like old parchment, and some of the embellishments crumbled and cracked in places. The grounds were deadly quiet, and standing in front of the house, in the roundabout, was Bann Trevelyan himself, along with a petite, slender blonde woman in an icy blue gown. Next to her was a small boy, sucking his thumb and staring at the coaches with impassive eyes.

Vivienne stepped out first, and Bann Trevelyan greeted her first, giving her a kiss of greeting to her hand, throwing in an obsequious platitude which did nothing to shift Madame de Fer’s iron mask. Hadiza and Aja stepped out next, and the Bann stood rooted to the spot when he saw his eldest daughter, looking sickly, but there she was. Hadiza had to admit, the sight of her father after so many years was briefly comforting. She recalled a time long past when he looked upon her not with shame, disappointment, and hatred, but with pride, hope, and joy.

Edward Trevelyan stepped forward and smiled fondly.

“Hadiza,” he said, and her name held 17 years’ worth of emotion in it, “at last you’ve come home.”

Hadiza opened her mouth to speak, intending to make it clear that she was not here for a tearful reunion, but Samson, Feynriel and Dorian stepped out of their coach, and while they’d all made an effort to look presentable for the Bann and his family, Samson’s face was…distinct.

At first, Edward’s dark eyes squinted, thinking it some trick of the light, but as the three men came to join Hadiza, a proverbial storm gathered on his face, and the warmth of his welcome drained, snatched by the cold wind that blew around them.

“You dare?” His voice was low and dangerous and Hadiza knew what would come next. “Hadiza, explain why this…this _disgrace_ is here.”

Hadiza sighed, rubbing her left arm. “He’s an agent of the Inquisition, father. And he’s helping to safeguard me so that my magic doesn’t backfire.”

Edward scoffed. “You have plenty of templars under your banner, Hadiza! And far more honorable and trustworthy besides! You would spit in the face of the Chantry by giving succor to this…this…”

Samson’s eyes glittered. “Go on, my lord,” he said, “say it. I can guarantee you I’ve heard it before.”

“Do not presume to address your betters, insolent swine.” Edward spat and then turned his attention to Hadiza. “He cannot stay here.”

Hadiza frowned. “Why not? He too is under my banner.”

“Do you know the scandal it will cause? The shame it will bring upon our family’s name? Maker’s mercy, Hadiza, have you not caused me enough grief for one lifetime?!”

The silence snapped around them like a trap closing and Hadiza drew back. She had known that her father blamed her for the troubles their family had in the social stratosphere they occupied so precariously. But she had not expected the barbs to hook and sting so much. Without her mother to stand between them, she bore the full brunt of her father’s hatred for mages. Hadiza breathed deep, swallowing the unexpected lump in her throat.

The blonde woman, sensing the confrontation, came to diffuse the situation.

“Edward, darling,” she said sweetly, “we should take this inside, where you and the Inquisitor can speak in private. The drive is no place for such talk.”

For a moment, it seemed as if Edward would ignore her, but after a while, he sighed, turning his back and striding off without another word. The blonde woman curtsied.

“My apologies,” she said softly, “Edward has been under a lot of strain these last few months and his temper is shorter for it. My name is Yvaine. I shall send for your belongings. The seneschal shall see you to your quarters. I bid you welcome, Inquisitor.” She sketched another curtsey and then took her son’s hand to follow Edward inside.

Dorian laughed. “And here I thought your family would be rather dull, dear cousin.” He clapped Aja on the shoulder who shot him a warning look, quelling further quips. Hadiza swallowed again, and took a deep breath.

“Well,” she said, steeling her voice, “let’s make ourselves at home.”

* * *

The inside of the Trevelyan home was vast, and Samson was put in mind of the inside of the Kirkwall Chantry, although this was a great deal less severe. The vestibule was elegant, and clean, made of marble, and he felt wrong in the place. He remembered Hadiza telling him how the Trevelyans had strong ties to the Chantry, both in faith and through clergy members in their extensive clan. Every stone of the mansion breathed the faith, but there was a discordant note in the atmosphere, something that rang _false_ despite the Trevelyan reputation for piety. The seneschal, an older man by the name Ezra, said nothing to them as he led them further into the house, beyond the vestibule into the main hall. A wide staircase on either side led to each respective wing of the house, and Ezra took them left, reaching with trembling, spotted hands for the keys.

Hadiza seemed apprehensive as they ascended the steps. “What of my old room, Ezra? Is it still…?” She queried. Ezra kept walking, but he answered her nonetheless.

“It is still intact, my lady,” he said softly, “although it has not been prepared for your arrival. Will you like me to relay to the staff that you wish to have changes made?”

“That won’t be necessary, Ezra, thank you,” Hadiza said quickly, “the guest rooms will suffice.”

“Very well, my lady,” he said and returned to his reticence.

“Not a very cheery atmosphere, is it?” Dorian asked, “You’d think we’d intruded during a mourning period. Although, I’ve been to houses in mourning that were more welcoming and festive than this. Hadiza you disappoint me.”

Hadiza twisted her mouth into a comical frown. “Get in line. It seems the list of people I have disappointed grows in number by the day.”

Samson wanted to reach for her hand, give it a squeeze, but he knew better.

When Ezra assigned them to their rooms, and they found their things already brought up and sorted, Hadiza gathered them in her room to plan.

“My dear might I suggest untangling any knots with your father before we proceed to negotiate with him?” Vivienne asked, giving Hadiza’s room a sidelong once-over. Hadiza smiled thinly.

“Your suggestion is duly noted, Madame Vivienne,” she smiled wider when Vivienne returned her grin, “but my father is not one for negotiation in such matters. I need to speak with him regarding what answer he has to my…condition. He is not fond of mages, so how he came by this information is curious.”

Aja picked at her teeth, sucking rudely. “I’d say mother may have somewhat to do with it.” She said and Hadiza looked up sharply, saying nothing in response.

“Alright,” she said finally, “that may be true. Still…I’m running out of time, and options. Feynriel, can you whip up any of that tonic? The one that blocks out my dreams?” Feynriel hesitated.

“I can,” he said slowly, “but it will take time to prepare. If I could have the right ingredients…and access to the kitchens…”

“Done.” Aja said, “Just tell me what you need and we’ll send the servants out to town to fetch it.” Feynriel nodded in assent, following Aja out of the room. Hadiza watched them go, leaning on her staff and taking a deep breath.

“You should sleep,” Dorian said seriously, “or try to. We’ve reached our destination…and we’re at least far enough away that the crows of Orlais and Ferelden aren’t circling.”

Vivienne smiled. “Don’t be so sure, darling,” she warned, “after all, I’m sure some of us thought Skyhold contained and free from their influence and prying eyes.” She met Hadiza’s gaze, causing the younger woman to look away first.

“Fuck Orlais and Ferelden both,” Samson said at last, “they’re not our priority right now. Seeing that Hadiza’s arm doesn’t kill her or innocent people is our priority. She’s halfway to becoming an abom—possessed. This is the kind of shit I’d like to avoid. So sod the bloody Game.”

That, apparently, put an end to the discussion. Hadiza dismissed them, telling them to get comfortable, leaving her and Samson alone. Although, with the intrusion of the entity that sometimes took control, they were never truly alone, were they?

Silence stretched between them, a vast chasm neither seemed able to cross, and Hadiza stood close enough to him to touch, and yet she couldn’t. She wanted to—badly—wanted to spread her hand along his chest and feel the strong, sure beat of his heart. Yet even that simple thing she did not do.

“I’m sorry.” She murmured, unbidden, and Samson’s brows furrowed in confusion.

“For what?” He asked. Hadiza smiled sadly, but it didn’t hold, and she gestured to herself absently.

“I’m a Harrowed mage proving every mage hater right from here to the Anderfels. Can’t resist temptation.” She turned bitter, turning away from him, trying to focus on the room. Samson sighed, rubbing his hands over his face.

“Look,” he said sternly, “I am not going to let this shit fuck up whatever I think of you. You pushed a boundary using that magic to find Corypheus. And I let you push that boundary because let’s face it: I didn’t want the world in his hands any more than you did. But he got the drop on you, and I don’t blame you for that. I told you: he was like no mage I’d ever seen. Standing next to him was like standing next to a storm. All that…fury…power. It was hell on my templar instincts that’s for sure.”

Hadiza laughed, and Samson smiled, glad to be making headway.

“But you did the impossible: you found the bastard. You found him before he could succeed and the world’s safer for it. But…” He looked down, remembering the unspoken specter that loomed between them. “…Everything has a price, princess. Even good deeds comes with a catch. Doesn’t make you a bad person, does it?”

Hadiza was unsure, but when she weighed her deeds against this one thing…this price for her pride.

“No,” she said finally, coming to him, closing the distance and taking his hands in hers. “No it doesn’t. But it does not absolve me of the sin of pride. Had I not been so cocksure, I might not have been vulnerable to a mental assault.”

“And had you not been so cocksure,” Samson said, leaning it to kiss the corner of her mouth, “we’d be dead or bracing ourselves for the end. You did what you thought was necessary to get the job done. Don’t diminish your victory.”

Hadiza sighed. “You never…you never told me why you did it, Raleigh.” She said, blinking away her doubt. Samson drew back, apprehension cold in his gut.

“Did what?” He knew.

“The civilians. Why them? If red lyrium grew wherever you deigned to plant it…why did you need civilians—innocents—to grow it? What was the purpose of such cruelty?”

It was not something Samson was ready to address, and the guilt sobered him.

“Hadiza…” He began, taking his hands away from hers, “…I’ll talk about this one day. I promise you I will. But I’m not ready to.”

She watched his face, searching for a lie, and finding whatever answer she sought, she nodded.

“Okay,” she said softly, smiling, “when you’re ready, then.” She reached up, fingertips lingering on his cheek. Samson was still as stone, hesitant and resisting the urge to lean into her touch. She did not seek to cup his face, but she did linger far longer than usual.

“You should get some rest,” he told her, “or go see your father. Last I checked, he was ready to throw me to the wolves. Can’t say I blame him.”

Hadiza laughed. “Yes, well, you _are_ my agent. I think the decision to throw you anywhere ultimately falls to me.” Samson smirked, leaning in for a kiss. Hadiza eagerly offered her mouth to his, and it felt so good. Ah! It was tender and sweet and everything he’d dreamed about in the weeks they’d been apart, even when they slept side by side. He kissed her until the taste of her mouth was all he knew, reveling in the familiar sound of her sweet breath, her little gasp as his tongue slid suggestively along her lower lip, sucking it into his mouth. Hadiza felt the heat in her blood rising, felt her skin tingle in the familiarity of arousal, and her arms came around him as his lips roved the sleek line of her jaw, reveling in her coquettish laughter as he found that tender spot just under the hinge of her jaw, where her pulse fluttered softly.

“I’ve been wanting you for weeks, Hadiza,” he whispered, “starved for you…” Hadiza bit her lip on a grin as his hands traveled along the curves of her body.

“Really?” She asked innocently, “I hadn’t noticed.” And Samson nipped her earlobe in response, making her laugh. But instead, he enveloped her in his arms in a tight and warm hug, firm and strong. She clung to him, burying her face in his chest. For a while they merely held onto one another, and that was enough.

And that was how Bann Trevelyan found them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eh. Meh. Whatever.


	18. Fractures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get heated in House Trevelyan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW! At last. Also, content warning for domestic violence. I've been dying to write this chapter for ages.

“Take your hands off of her.”

Samson had never heard those words thrown his way a day in his life. He’d thought himself above those types of men, at least, never putting his hands on a woman that didn’t ask him to. He’d thought, even at his lowest, that he still respected such simple boundaries. He’d been with Hadiza long enough to know that she would not rebuff him, but he still knew it was better to ask permission and get her approval before proceeding.

The world could say what they would of him, but they would never say he forced a woman. Not if they were being honest, anyway.

None of this mattered to Bann Trevelyan. None of it mattered because in his eyes, Raleigh Samson was the ultimate disgrace; disgusting filth one wiped from their boot heel before entering the home. He should have been executed and his head piked in Kirkwall, and his body burned or tossed into a ravine for the ravens and crows to feast upon. To Bann Trevelyan, it did not matter that Samson had ‘good’ intentions, because his crime was a stink that reached to heaven, his sins forever etched into his bones, and no amount of atonement would ever make him worthy of more than a beheading.

Samson gently and slowly released Hadiza from his embrace and turned to face Edward, wordless and resolute. Hadiza stepped forward, finding some reserves of strength and Samson wanted to stop her, to tell her that he didn’t need her defending him, but he knew that for a lie.

“Father, I can explain…” She began and the hiss her father let out was so sharp and biting it cowed her to silence. In that moment, Hadiza was made small and Samson understood how deep the well of blood flowed in House Trevelyan.

“You can explain,” her father mimicked in disgust, “I wanted to quell the rumors, to refute them as the disgusting propaganda of the servants of that treacherous slattern that sits the throne of Orlais, or to credit it to the envy of my peers and colleagues.” Bann Trevelyan was a force of nature gathering power in his black rage. “I wanted to tell them that my eldest daughter would never engage in something so illicit, so beneath her station, and so _foolish_ as to fraternize with a war criminal and prisoner! And now, the very same daughter whose name I sought to defend from detractors, brings under my roof the very last man who should even stand in her shadow.”

Hadiza swallowed hard and Samson felt shame burn his blood, making his skin hot. Guilt and shame commingled and made him feel ill, but he stood his ground. Bann Trevelyan closed some of the distance between himself and his daughter, and he stood eye to eye with her, his face contorted with anger and disappointment.

“Tell me you didn’t…” He stole a disgusted glance at Samson, “Tell me you didn’t fornicate with him, Hadiza. Tell me this is a harmless infatuation, the influence of corruption. Tell me you did not willingly lie with this perfidious scoundrel.”

Unbidden, memories flooded Samson’s mind. Memories of a coquettish laugh, of the cut of silver eyes over a dark shoulder; of sable hair caught in his fingers like he held the very night in his hands. His lips recalled the imprint of the sun, of warm dark skin like satin. His memories assaulted him in his moment of shame, a pair of full, brown lips wrapped around his cock, slender pianist fingers wrapped around the base; of a long leg draped over his shoulder, nails raking his back, squeezing his ass, and a breathless cry of encouragement as his hips surged forward, burying himself in the hot slick sanctuary that was _her_.

 _Tell me you didn’t fornicate with him_.

Oh Maker, she did. And in Hadiza’s silence, Samson saw all the instances in which they came together, passionate and violent, slow and tender, sharing smiles, laughs, and filth between the two of them. These had been private moments, moments he had taken and locked away in the part of himself he kept from everyone; even her. Hadiza gazed into her father’s plaintive eyes and said nothing.

And her answer could not have been clearer.

He lashed out, the back of his hand taking her unawares across the cheek, knocking her off balance as her staff clattered to the floor alongside her. Samson was galvanized into action and stepped between the Bann and his daughter, who climbed to her feet, touching her split lip.

“You lay another hand on her,” Samson said in a low voice, “and your son’s going to inherit a lot sooner than you’re ready for.”

Edward was unafraid.

“And if you kill me, _traitor_ ,” he said, “your head will be nailed to my front gate before the night is over. Do not provoke me any further for it is by my will alone that you survive this encounter.”

Samson sucked his teeth, gave one of his shark-toothed grins. “You like to think that’s the case. But if you touch her, I’ll kill you and gladly take the headsman on too if it comes to it.”

“Shut up, both of you!” Hadiza’s voice cracked, and she licked her split lip, trying to quell the blood. Samson backed off immediately, coming to stand by her side. Hadiza lifted her hand to her face, drew in a deep breath, and healed.

“I had mercifully forgotten that you were one of _them_.” Edward sneered, “But that sort of affliction cannot be helped.” He pointed an accusatory finger at Samson. “But _he_ cannot stay under this roof. I shall send the guard to escort him to the gates. He can find lodging in town, if there’s a soul in Ostwick charitable enough to give it to him.”

Samson felt the words excavating memories he thought long buried. Memories of his first few weeks after running out of the last of his coin in Kirkwall, of searching desperately for a place to sleep. Of sleeping in stables for short periods of time, waking before the staff roused and found him there. He had memories of selling what few belongings and personal effects he had left to him—very little—only for the coin to burn up in a few nights for a warm bed, a hot meal, and a pinch of the dust.

 _He can find lodging in town_.

He could not even find lodging in Kirkwall! And that had been before his pact with Corypheus. Now, with his sins staining his soul red with the blood of innocents, he knew finding lodging in Ostwick, the city that was upheld as loyal to the Chantry? Maker! They would string him up and beat him to death if he so much as dared ask. Bann Trevelyan knew this, was likely counting on this, and would gainsay Hadiza every step of the way.

“No.” Hadiza said firmly. “He is part of my squad. Where I go, he goes. If you send him away, the Inquisition will take offense.”

Edward scoffed. “Did your mother never teach you? Never let a man’s sexual prowess cloud your judgment!” He paused, looking down his nose at her. “Then again, your mother never learned that lesson either, it seems.”

Hadiza didn’t think, she struck.

Edward Trevelyan had been a fighter in his heyday, back when his own dreams of serving the Order had been derailed by his duties to the family. In all his years, he maintained those instincts. Hadiza was fast on a good day, a veritable snake strike at optimum health, but her illness slowed her. Edward caught her arm and shoved her backward. Samson caught her before she stumbled and fell, held in check by Hadiza as he made to advance upon her father.

“Go ahead, Hadiza,” Edward sneered, “let the dog go. Give me a reason.”

Neither of them moved but Samson’s eyes blazed in barely checked rage.

Edward took the time to smooth his sleeves and straighten his collar. “I want him clear of the property, Hadiza. He has two hours to be out of the gate and out of my sight or I will make good on my promise, and I _will_ be justified.”

Hadiza opened her mouth to protest but Samson snorted.

“I can be gone in less.” He said shortly.

“More’s the better,” Edward replied, “you’ll be responsible for your own transport, however.”

“Fine by me, your bleedin’ lordship.” Samson sneered.

Edward turned to leave, pausing by the door. “Hadiza, if you ever make to strike me again, I will strip you of everything and turn you and your little coterie of thugs out onto the street. Your damnable sister included.”

He left.

Hadiza whirled on Samson.

“You can’t go!” She shouted. “You’re…”

“Not worth the time it would take for your father to rally his men to come for my head.” Samson said. Hadiza made a distressed noise but he shook his head.

“We both knew there’d be consequences for us. Maferath’s traitorous balls, I didn’t even think there’d _be_ an us. But there is, and like it or not, no one is happy about that. And your da’s got a point, princess. I ain’t worth the trouble.”

Hadiza frowned, tried to find the words to tell him that he was worth it. He was worth it to her, and had proved his worth time and again. Instead, she hoped looking him in the eye would be enough to convey this.

It wasn’t. Samson went for his trunk, frowning as he remembered the Bann’s cruel addendum about finding his own transport.

“Is everything alright?” Dorian said from the doorway. “I heard shouting and…Samson where are you going? And Hadiza what happened to your face?!”

Hadiza didn’t answer. She was out of words, and so she did the only thing to voice her frustration: she clenched her fists and frowned. There was nothing else for it. Dorian glanced to Samson, hoping for answers.

“Bann didn’t take too kindly to me, as you well know,” he said with a bitter laugh, “so I’ve got to go into town and get my own lodging.”

Dorian scoffed. “Not very gentlemanly of him. Someone ought to refresh his memory on decorum with regards to honored guests. And _remind_ him that the Inquisitor has the last word in where her agents are quartered.” He shot a pointed look at Hadiza who scowled at the ground.

“I tried to remind him, but he has the answers I need. We have to comply. For now.” She said sullenly. Samson dragged his trunk with a grunt.

“Give me a hand with this, will you?” Samson glanced at Dorian whose eyes went wide with surprise.

He let out a loose laugh. “What? You’re talking about me? Samson have you ever seen me lift anything heavier than a book?”

Samson’s nostrils flared and a sharp and scathing retort was on the tip of his tongue, ready to be launched like an arrow when the weight of his trunk suddenly grew lighter. He glanced back, bewildered, and found Hadiza in rock armor, lifting the other end.

“Come on.” She said in a hard voice. Still nonplussed, Samson stood rooted to the ground. Hadiza’s rock-textures face glared, the glowing blue of her eyes flaring briefly.

“The sooner we get this done, the sooner I can straighten things out with my father.” She said forcefully. Shaken from his shock, Samson moved his feet, and he and Hadiza hauled the trunk down the hall, toward the stairs. Edward Trevelyan waited in the main hall, and he watched them descend, his gaze unreadable. His wife, Yvainne, stood by his side, wearing a pained expression. Hadiza made an effort to ignore her father as she and Samson made their way into the vestibule and out the front door.

“Have a coach brought round.” Hadiza ordered curtly to a guard.

“At once, my lady!” The guard said but before he moved to see it done, Edward stalked outside.

“You will do no such thing! Stand your post, man, or lose your position in this house.” He ordered. The guard was still, eyes darting between Hadiza and her father. She and Samson set the trunk down.

“Do as I command,” Hadiza ordered, “as the Inquisitor, my will supersedes his. And this coach is not for my companion, but for me. Now go!” It made her somewhat sick, having to pull her rank, and she saw her father’s dark eyes glittering with barely checked rage as the guard jogged off to see it done.

“You will regret this, Hadiza. The Maker will revoke His blessing from your brow, and you will no longer have the Chantry and the Inquisition to protect you.” He said in a low voice.

Hadiza did not answer him, watching as a black coach bearing the Trevelyan crest on its sides, pulled by a pair of matched Friesians, came round.

“You,” she said to the guard, “have my horse brought round as well.” The guard nodded, sketching a cursory bow before relaying the order to the stable hands tending to the Friesians who stood in their harnesses, proud with coats shining. Edward Trevelyan fumed silently. Hadiza’s own Friesian, Nyx, was led around soon after.

“Might I ask what you’re doing, Inquisitor?” Samson asked, careful to stress her title if only to see the Bann squirm. Hadiza fixed him with a cool look, the mask of her title obfuscating the glint in her eye.

“Can you ride?” She asked. Samson rubbed at his stubble, making a show of deliberating on an answer.

“Aye, Inquisitor,” he said at last, “I can.”

“Then we shall ride. I will escort you to town, and lend you full use of my horse for the duration of our time in Ostwick. Will that suffice?”

Samson couldn’t help it. He grinned, all teeth, eyes glittering. “It will, Inquisitor.”

 _Well done_. Hadiza heard in her own head but the voice was not her own. It was deeper, as if coming from the belly of the earth.

She turned to face her father at last as the coach was loaded with Samson’s trunk, and Samson swung easily into the saddle, taking the offered reins from the footman.

“Bann Trevelyan, I shall return anon,” she said, “or in the morning depending on the journey. We can discuss the matter of the late Evangeline Trevelyan when I do.”

The fire banked in her father’s eyes was answer enough, but his faith demanded he not gainsay the Inquisitor.

“As you will, Inquisitor.” He said through gritted teeth. Hadiza turned on her heel and stepped into the coach. And then she was off, Samson riding Nyx alongside her, looking smug and a bit awed at what he’d just seen. Hadiza brooded in the coach, watching the Estate’s grounds pass her by, listening to the creak of the iron gate as they made their way down the wide road, toward the city proper.

 _You know_ , the deep, pervasive voice seeped to the surface of her mind again, _if you had asked, I could have helped_.

“You will not help me.” Hadiza muttered aloud, seemingly to no one, “I know what your help entails. Your price is too high.”

_You said yourself you were tired of being the Inquisitor. If you let me, I could take over and relieve your burden._

Hadiza sucked her teeth in annoyance. “I said I was tired of being the Inquisitor, yes, but I at least know how to be the Inquisitor. You don’t even know how to handle something so simple as a flared temper.”

 _You wound me, my lady_. The voice laughed, the sound sweeping every curve of the inside of her skull, making her feel as if she’d consumed strong drink. _Are you afraid that you’ll turn into one of those disfigured abominations the templars are so scared of?_

“No.” Hadiza said, but she and _it_ knew that was a lie. “Yes. Aside, the moment I do, Samson will strike the killing blow and end your little party.”

_So confident in your broken templar. Then again, you do have a fancy for broken templars. Spreading yourself first for Cullen, and now Samson. Though I can see the appeal of the latter. If you knew the things he wanted to do to you…_

“I’m well-aware of his appetites, demon,” Hadiza said irritably, “now be silent. I have to formulate a plan.”

_I could help with that._

“I said be quiet!” Hadiza hissed. There was a distant echo of laughter, but the voice fell silent.

An hour passed and they were back in the city. Hadiza directed the coach driver to the same inn they’d stayed in the previous night. As she stepped out and the footmen unloaded the trunk, and a stable hand came round to collect Nyx, she went inside to speak with the innkeeper. Producing a hefty bag of coin, she secured lodging for Samson to see to it that he was made comfortable. Her father may have had pull in Ostwick, with the Trevelyans being one of the founding families, but Hadiza was the Inquisitor, and she felt it was high time she started using her title to her advantage.

Once lodging and payment were secured, she followed the staff upstairs to the room, with Samson keeping in step behind her. And then they were left alone inside the comfortable but somewhat small room, with only one last thing to strip away to assure them privacy.

Hadiza removed the mask of _The Inquisitor_ in the form of a warm smile.

Samson said nothing, watching her, trying to gauge just who she was. She continuously surprised him, and he’d not expected her to risk losing her own surname to protect him. He wanted to resent her for it, tell her she was foolish for taking such a risk on his account. But love did not work that way. Love was only party to madness, and Samson had been driven mad this night.

Both of them moved at the same time, coming together like stars within one another’s mutual orbit. He kissed her like a man starved, and she kissed back, arms going around his neck, mouth opening at his insistence so he could taste her. There was too much fabric between their skins, and they fumbled and laughed, and made noises of frustration in an effort to ride one another out of their clothes. He stripped away her cloak, unlaced the leather jerkin she wore. She tugged at his belt, he gripped a fistful of her silken shirt. Fabric tore, rending the silence to pieces, further cut apart by their sharp, breathless panting. It was too much, too fast, and Samson had never been a graceful lover. Hadiza didn’t care, she did not mourn her ruined shirt, kicking off her boots as they fell as one to the cushioning support of pillows and feather-stuffed blankets.

There were no words between them, because they had had enough of words. Words would ruin the moment. So they spoke in the other language they had so keenly developed in the long year they’d been together. Samson unlaced her breaches, tugging, and every inch of skin he revealed, he kissed, even the red veined length of her arm, quelling the worry in the back of his mind as he saw the encroachment creep beyond her elbow. Hadiza tried to get her mouth on him, and he let her. His skin was cooler than hers, and drier. She kissed it, all the freckles on his shoulders, the spots on his face, the sharp, angular lines that carved out his cheekbones and jaw. She kissed his mouth, again and again, writing and rewriting the same sentence in different ways.

Samson slid his hand up the side of her belly, along her ribs, cupping her breast, relishing the feel of her nipple hardening against his calloused palm. Hadiza groaned, relieved and aching all at once. It had been too long since he’d last touched her, too long since she’d been able to lose herself with him in this way. Duty and circumstance had separated them for too long, and she remembered how she’d almost lost him, and clung to him tighter.

He kissed her throat, her collar bone, every inch of her was holy to him, sacrosanct, as if she truly were Andraste’s Herald. He was glad for the privilege, even as he took one dusky nipple into his mouth, trapping it gently between his teeth and running the rough broad span of his tongue along the sensitive bud. Her groan, and the digging her nails into his scalp, was enough to sharpen his desire, and he gently bit down, making her yelp. Chuckling, he continued his worship of the hallowed flesh, making his way further down, crossing a line he’d been dying to blur for literal months. Her thighs fell open for him—no, she spread them, spread herself wide, offering, tilting her hips upward, and he caught a flash of moist pink beneath dark skin and wet, black curls. Samson did not hesitate, and he took her offering, draping her legs over his shoulders reverently, pushing her thighs back to expose her to his hungry mouth.

The first pass of his tongue was to part the swollen lips of her sex, and only then did he slide his hands down the backs of her thighs, slow and indulgent, before he spread her open with his thumbs, leaning in to seal his lips around the swollen bud of her clit. He sucked hard, almost too hard, but it was enough to make her thrash. He heard the dull thud of her hand slamming down on the bed, heard the whisper of sheets twisted in her grasp, and then the erratic and broken cries that escaped her, crossing her ankles at his back, pulling him as close as she could. Hadiza’s hips rose, pumping against the rhythm of his mouth, craving the slick movement of his tongue. Words failed her, save the ones her mouth dared to shape. His name, an unfinished sentence, ending in a high pitched cry as she suddenly found herself coming and coming, her thighs closed around his head. The sight of his head between her thighs further goaded her pleasure and she shivered, ankles unlocked, legs falling apart. Samson lapped at her in earnest, reveling in the feel of her slick coating his chin, of the way her skin glowed in that hazy moment post-climax.

He pulled away from her with a lingering, saturated suck, and one gentle flick of his tongue against her clit, making her shiver and laugh.

He was hard as a rock, but it didn’t matter, he’d received the benediction he craved but did not deserve, and as he filled the space between her widespread legs, Hadiza welcomed him as she would welcome home anyone she loved. Samson forgot his shame and guilt, and she forgot her anger and the calamity outside. He surged forward, braced on both his arms, hissing out a reverent swear as he tilted his head back and groaned. It had been far too long since he’d been inside her. He’d forgotten she felt molten, tight, slick and welcoming. She fit him like a glove.

Maker, _why_ did they fit like this?

Hadiza lifted her legs, dragging her thighs up against him, squeezing him to galvanize him into what she wanted so badly.

He moved, slow, so agonizingly slow, drawing out of her with a low hiss, before pushing back in. Hadiza’s hands went to his shoulders, nails a sharp spur to goad him into giving her more.

And he, like a trained mount, obliged her. He couldn’t help it, in truth, she felt so damn good wrapped around his cock, that it was impossible to torture himself with deep and slow strokes. So he obliged her desires, the lyrium in his blood a heady and cool boost to his strength. He fucked her, and she, in all of her wanton lust, fucked back, lifting her hips to meet him stroke for ruthless stroke, taking him back into herself before he’d fully withdrawn.

It was too good. So fucking good.

He could hear it, could hear the sound of his flesh meeting hers, the wet and lascivious sound of her cunt sucking him back in, greedy and shameless. It was a filthy sound and he loved it, let it prick the desire in his veins as his hands pushed her knees apart. Without warning, their lovemaking turned to its other side, and he was out of her, and instinctively, she rolled over, rising onto all fours. The sight of her ass in the air, that deep arch in her back, and the lips of her sex split and wet, the inner lips barely visible…it was enough. Samson let out a groan.

“Wrap your hands around the bars, princess, and your flesh around _me_.” He ordered and she did, dropping onto her forearms only to reach forward and curl her fingers around the metal bars of the bed frame. Samson rose on his knees, gripping her hips forcefully. He pulled her back as he thrust forward, and buried himself in her. At this new, deeper angle, Hadiza had no way to control her cries. His knees pushed hers apart, so he could watch her body bow for him, watch himself go in and out of her, slick with her arousal. The sound of their coupling was loud in the small room, a rhythm of flesh meeting flesh, punctuated by the wooden clacking of the metal frame striking the wall. She sought to stuff her mouth with a pillow, biting down, but the pleasure was insurmountable. He stretched her, and all of his fury that he could not take out on her father, he unleashed in sex. The sharp pain of him striking deep provided the bite she needed to come, and Samson swore loudly as he felt the spasms of lust-saturated walls in the midst of a violent climax. Hadiza let go of the bars, rose up and began to thrust backward against him.

“Hadiza…!” He hissed. “I’m gonna…shit…!” He lost himself, pulling her backward violently in short, brutal strokes before he buried himself hilt-deep, cock twitching and spasming as he filled her with his seed, making the slide between them even slicker. Hadiza panted, dropping back down on to the bed, biting her lip as the wetter feel of him still within her. His nails dug into the curves of her ass, and then he loosened is grip, hands trembling. After a moment, when their bodies seemed to recover, he slipped out of her, making her gasp, hips jerking. Samson watched as his seed slid out of her as well, leaving a sticky and milky trail along her thighs. Then, in a sudden display that surprised him, he leaned in, and lapped at her sex, tasting the commingling of both of them. Hadiza, still sensitive, shivered.

“Raleigh…!” She whispered, then moaned as he teased a smaller, gentler climax out of her, his tongue sliding in a steady rhythm along her clit. The climax forced the rest of his seed out of her, which he licked clean.

Afterward, they lay beside one another, sweat-slick and panting. His chest was flushed red, and her skin glowed dewy in the dying light of the sun that filtered through the window.

“That was fucking beautiful.” He breathed, staring at the ceiling. Hadiza smiled then laughed.

“Which part?” She asked and Samson turned his head to look at her.

“The part where you shut your father up. The part where you pulled rank. The part where you screamed my name while I fucked you. All of it, princess. Maker’s balls, what the fuck did I do to deserve you?” Hadiza kept smiling, turning to lay on her side.

“I don’t know. But it’s good to hear you say you deserve something at least.”

Samson was quiet, thoughtful, trying very hard to make sense of life after having spent his energy feeling more alive than he had in months.

“Will your father disown you for this? Or are you calling his bluff?” His fingers went to her hair, as they so often did, letting himself enjoy the feel of it. Hadiza moved closer to him, and he wrapped his free arm around her, until they were pressed together, skin to skin, curves and lines, light and dark. He took his hands from her hair, found her hand, locked their fingers.

“I’m calling his bluff,” she answered, “he has too much need of the influence and power I wield to toss me out.” Samson shut his eyes in assent, even as their locked hands moved in an idle circle in the reddish sunbeam.

“What was all that before, about your sister and you being set aside for the new kid?” He opened his eyes, because in this moment, he wanted to drink in the image of her smiling at him before she had to resume her role as the Inquisitor.

“There’s…politics in Ostwick, as there are in every part of Thedas,” Hadiza explained, “part of those politics encompass a certain…disdain for people who look like me.” Samson raised his brows, silently questioning.

“You’ve heard the term ‘mudskin’, yes?” She asked and he nodded. “It’s a slur…much like knife-ear to the elves. The Trevelyans helped found Ostwick, and our family has been numbered amongst the most devout to the Chantry in our entire history. And yet, the darker our skin got through the generations, the more our true influence and power waned. It was never like this, in the beginning, when Ostwick was new and the faith was fresh, its message still unsullied by history.” Hadiza bit her lip. Samson said nothing, listening intently.

“But over time, things changed. It was not favorable to marry people who looked like me. There’s a strain of Rivaini in the old families, that most of the Twelve have successfully bred out, preferring to adhere to the aesthetic of pale skin and fair hair and eyes. The Trevelyans did not fare so well in that regard.”

“And your mother?” Samson asked, “Was she…?”

“A Rivaini witch?” Hadiza laughed, “Maker, no. But she was Rivaini, and bore the stamp of her lineage on her face and skin. But that matters little to those who have no way to rationalize their hatred. She was foreign, and everyone knows the Rivaini apparently allow mages to become abominations as part of some heathen study of magic. They saw nothing else, even though she lived and died a faithful Andrastian.”

Samson frowned. “I don’t understand. What’s wrong with your skin that’s got these folks all worked up?”

Hadiza smiled sadly. “I wish I knew. I did not bear the brunt of such prejudice, but my sister did. It is partially why she left home.” Samson nodded, even though he still couldn’t wrap his head around it.

“Sounds foolish to me,” he said, “that they’d treat your family like trash even though you helped build this city. And your family makes up most of the damned Chantry here.”

Hadiza frowned. “I wish it were only mere foolishness. But these people have the power and influence to make their hatred manifest in various ways. After my mother’s death, for instance, it should have been easy for one of the Twelve to bequeath him with one of their own daughters for him to remarry and continue the Trevelyan line. You would think, the way they bred out the Rivaini of their own blood, that they would seek to help my father do the same. But no, he is too dark, too brutish-looking. And so the marriage fell upon a lesser house.”

“That’s complete bullshit.” Samson said, “Wouldn’t it be advantageous for them to bond with your House? You guys are big wigs up here…all over a little skin?”

Hadiza smiled thinly. “All over a little skin. It is one of the reasons I do not regret being sent to the Circle _too_ badly. I had thought that Southern Thedas would be different, but I was very wrong. In some ways, it’s worse.”

Samson frowned. “How so?”

“Orlais.” Hadiza said simply and he raised his brows and nodded. It was answer enough.

“Well, for what it’s worth, princess…” He squeezed her hand, “You’ll get no such treatment on my end. I’m a bad guy, but…”

“The sentiment is appreciated, love,” Hadiza said, “but sadly, one sentiment does not undo the opposition I will inevitably face when we return to Skyhold. Ferelden speaks of petitioning the Chantry to dismantle us, and I…I cannot allow that to happen. There’s so much work I still must do.”

Samson leaned in, kissing the corner of her mouth.

“And you won’t be alone.”

It wasn’t long before night fell, and Samson slept, deeper and more comfortable than he had in a long while. Hadiza lay awake for a few moments longer and listened to the quiet of her own mind for the first time in months.

The demon, for once, was baffled into silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to leave your mark. *braces for silence*


	19. Filigree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of drama in the Trevelyan family. And it's only just beginning.

It had been a long time since Hadiza woke to sunlight and contentment. But it was not the sun that roused her, but the smell of warm pastry. For a moment, Hadiza only opened her eyes, finding herself alone in the bed. Remembering the previous night, she smiled, stretching her legs beneath the sheets, and sighing. She sat up, squinting against the light and looking around.

“About time you woke up,” Samson said from across the room, “I was beginning to worry you’d lost your sense of smell.” Hadiza blinked, rubbing her eyes to clear her vision. He was sitting at the small table where breakfast sat in a large tray, consisting of a fresh loaf of bread, several pastries, and fresh fruit. Hadiza smiled, but did not make to leave the bed. Samson reached for the table, lifting an ornate glass jar containing honey. Hadiza made a small delighted sound and immediately clambered out of bed, heedless of her nudity. She found her ruined shirt draped over the back of a chair, along with her leggings and boots. Scrunching her nose, she went to Samson’s trunk, opting to borrow one of his shirts instead. It slipped over her head easily, settling on her like a heavy cloud. The sleeves were too long, so she rolled them up, and it dwarfed her slender figure, coming down to mid-thigh.

“You stealing the shirt off my back can be forgiven, princess,” Samson said as she came to join him, “since I tore yours. I’m sorry, it was a nice shirt.”

“Ah well,” Hadiza smiled as she sat across from him, helping herself to the grapes first, “you made up for the transgression. All is forgiven.”

Samson smirked. “Indeed.”

They ate in contented silence, but their eyes met every so often, and Samson felt as if the shit storm they’d created was but a distant nightmare, fading with the first rays of the dawn. The way she smiled at him made him feel as if the sins on his head could be cleansed from him. He knew he deserved none of it, but he wanted, he dared to want absolution. He found a promise of it in the curve of that smile, the guileless brightness in her eyes, and the almost giddy hum of pleasure as she bit into a honey-drizzled pastry. For once, Hadiza’s appetite was prodigious, but the red veins of her left arm, pulsating and glowing, served to sober and remind him why they were in Ostwick to begin with.

“We should hurry up,” he told her at last, loathe to give up this moment where his heart felt lightest, “your da’s not going to wait around forever.”

Hadiza nodded, washing down her breakfast with a bit of the cool wine provided. After dabbing her mouth with a napkin, she met his gaze. The last vestiges of the delicate and tender memories they’d forged in the room faded as the sun rose higher, bathing the room in bright light.

“Time to go to work.” 

* * *

 

When Hadiza and Samson returned to the Trevelyan Estate, Hadiza was surprised to see her father’s countenance changed. He smiled at her graciously, though it did not reach his eyes, and his smile waned when he saw Samson, mounted on Hadiza’s Friesian, in his Inquisition uniform, looking smug as he dismounted. Hadiza had improvised with Samson’s shirt, tying her sash around the waist to turn it into a tunic over her leggings. Her hair, which had become somewhat mussed and disheveled in the previous night’s activities, was hastily tied up, giving her a road-weary appearance. She seemed, however, to have regained some of the strength she’d lost during the initial sojourn, and she noted Vivienne’s raised eyebrow, and Dorian’s rather smug but approving smile. Feynriel, for his part, looked rather lost, but he searched Hadiza’s face and smiled warmly, seeing her and not the demon using her to see.

Hadiza frowned. “Where’s Aja?” She asked. At that Dorian inhaled deeply.

“I do believe she is thrashing your father’s entire personal guard on the training grounds. Not to worry, no one has died yet, although I wager your father will be short a few men soon enough.”

Hadiza sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Alright, let’s get on with this.”

Bann Trevelyan met with them in his study and for a moment Hadiza was taken aback with the memories the place evoked. It seemed unchanged by time, with the mahogany still dusted and polished to perfection. A large map of Thedas spanned the far wall behind the chair in front of the large desk, and a bookcase of comb-shaped shaves held various scrolls, with small tags hanging from the rods denoting their title and author. Hadiza remembered as a child they would throw open the large arched window and the wind would flutter all the tags, making it look like a swarm of strange butterflies flapping in the room.

She smiled to herself, remembering.

Edward offered them seats, and as they got comfortable, Edward poured himself a glass of brown liquor, offering them none. It was fine, because none would take it. Hadiza had warned Dorian to tone down his drinking for this journey.

“You are no doubt aware that until her passing, that Ostwick nobility branded your mother a heathen Rivaini witch in an effort to discredit me, yes?” Edward asked and Hadiza took a deep breath to steady herself. He must have known how much it stung her to hear it voiced with such insouciance, and he met her eyes, his expression hard. Hadiza hid behind _The Inquisitor_ , and did not falter.

“I am now,” she said evenly, “what has this to do with the answers you promised us?”

Edward paced, nursing his drink and turning to face the map of Thedas on his wall. It was beautifully rendered, lovingly crafted and tended, and he reached up tentatively to brush his fingers over the Free Marches, tracing an unseen path along the Marcher coast, inland, further north toward Rivain.

“She was no witch,” he said, his voice distant, as if his mind were remembering a time he would rather have buried, “but her family was renown for turning out mages as if it were their job. Her noble house was born and bred to magic. The _affliction_ was as entrenched to her blood as wetness to water, and she was mercifully spared its taint. At the time, I did not know, and when I was made aware, I had prayed that you and your sister would be spared as well…”

Hadiza’s hands rested on her knees, and her fingers curled tightly, squeezing into tight, trembling fists. She took strength from Vivienne, who also bore the very ‘affliction’ Edward so disdainfully spoke of, and who sat in her finest Enchanter gear, the Orlesian hennin gleaming in the sunlight, her face impassive, and her carriage erect. Hadiza sought to emulate this, sinking further behind the mask of _Inquisitor_ to face down the hatred her father so casually flung in her direction.

“That night, when you revealed yourself to be cursed with it, I nearly tossed her out onto the street. After all, ’twas her blood that ran in your veins, bearing the sleeping taint of magic within. I prayed it never blossomed in Aja, that she would succeed where you failed.” Edward turned to face Hadiza and her assembled squad. “But she too was a failure, though for far different reasons than you. Your affliction cannot be helped. Hers was a deliberate slight.”

“We’re not here to discuss me, father.” Aja said from the doorway, wearing her training armor, her face streaked with sweat, her hands smudged with dirt. A great sword was slung across her back, and she bore its weight with practiced ease, “We are here because you said you had a solution to the Inquisitor’s problem. If you don’t mind, I’d rather not have someone else dredging our family’s dramatic past out of the archives to make a point.”

In that moment, Hadiza was thankful for her sister and she slowly released a breath she didn’t know she had been holding.

Edward narrowed his eyes at Aja, who gave him her gold-fanged grin back, but he said nothing further to refute her.

“Well, your mother left you some things, Hadiza,” he said without preamble, “journals, accounts of her family in Rivain, and a large chest that no one seems able to open. It is my belief that you should look to the journals and see if your answers lie there.”

Vivienne’s brow furrowed. “My lord, do you mean to tell us that you summoned us here, put the Inquisitor under stress, all to tell her the answer may or may not lie in the accounts of her mother’s personal memoirs?” She gave a little laugh, one Hadiza knew was derisive for all of its prettiness. “You are not very good at this, I see.”

Edward’s withering gaze settled on her but Vivienne matched him with the imperious look of her own and Hadiza would have applauded for her father hid his anger by taking a sip of his liquor.

“Yes, well, whatever I promised you wasn’t exactly a definitive answer. I merely thought it could help.” He said crossly.

Hadiza leaned back in her chair, relaxing visibly. “Where are these things?” She asked. Edward drained the remainder of his liquor, setting the glass down as he met her eyes.

“In your old room.” Edward said simply and Hadiza felt her breath catch in her throat. Remembering Vivienne, she nodded.

“Right. I suppose I’ve a lot of reading to do, then.” She said. Edward smiled thinly.

“Yes, daughter, you do. Your mother was a prodigious and prolific writer. I wager if you’re seeking an answer, it’s somewhere in those journals.” His hand came to rest on the desk, and he took stock of all assembled. “If that is all, I’ve business to attend to, and I’m sure you’ll want to meet privately with the Inquisitor to discuss your next course of action. You are free to make use of the study for this purpose, or any of the drawing rooms. The servants are about if you’ve need of refreshment or any assistance.”

Hadiza stood, as did the others. As they began to file out of the room, Edward glanced up.

“Hadiza, Aja, if I may have a word with the two of you in private…” He said and both sisters hesitated. Samson shot Hadiza questioning glance and she gave a single shake of her head. Glancing at the Bann, Samson made a gruff sound and departed.

For the first time in over a decade, Bann Trevelyan was alone with his daughters.

“Ah,” Aja said with a laugh, “here comes the scolding about embarrassing him in front of company.” She glanced at Hadiza, “You remember the whole song and dance, yes?”

Hadiza said nothing, finding no humor in the apprehension she felt.

Edward shot an exasperated look at Aja, who shrugged, cavalier and nonchalant.

“Listen,” he began, “I realize that neither of you bear any real affection toward me, and to that I should tell you that I care very little.” Both Hadiza and Aja sobered instantly, and Edward hesitated for a breath as he saw echoes of his long-dead wife gazing at him through the eyes of two powerful women.

“I cannot express how important it is for you two to be done with your business in Ostwick and depart. It is only by the grace of the faith and your mother’s memory that I do not disown the both of you.”

“As if you ever intended to let either of us inherit,” Aja scoffed, “please father, we are not children, to be spun lies to satiate our growing sense of unease. I know you see me as a failure because I do not wish to be married off to some stuff-shirt swaggering nobleman’s son with barely a lick of sense between his ears.” Hadiza heard a raw note in Aja’s voice, a wound unhealed, and the scar tissue broke and tore anew, and over 17 years of hurt colored her voice.

“I became the warrior every templar wished they could be,” Aja said fiercely, “but because I didn’t want to kneel in prayer and die of stiff knees in a cold and barren Chantry and actually go out and make a difference, I was cast out.”

“You killed a fellow recruit!” Edward shouted, and Hadiza’s eyes went wide, and her gaze went to Aja, disbelieving.

“It was self-defense!” Aja countered, “He attacked me outside of the training ring, called me a _mudskin_ , and told me I shouldn’t be allowed to foul up the Order! He came at me with steel, and so I defended myself!”

“That is not what I was told, Aja,” Edward said and Aja let out a bark of derisive laughter.

“And you would believe them over your own flesh and blood, father? Even after all this time? The same men and women who look down their noses at you, call you every foul thing under the sun when they think you can’t hear them…you would believe their lies? All because I refused to be married off?”

Hadiza rubbed her left arm. “ Aja…”

But Aja was angry, and would not be cowed. “And remember how mother would praise Hadiza, despite my being the more grounded warrior? Mother would never admit it, but she loved Hadiza more when she came into her magic, Maker only knows why.”

Hadiza drew back as if she’d been struck. So it was back to that, was it? She had thought this rivalry resolved when Aja first came to Skyhold. But the wound was deeper than she thought.

“The answers are in those journals, Aja,” Edward said wearily, “I’ll not sit here and argue with you about whether or not you were the favored daughter. In the end, was your sister not sent to the Circle while you remained to reap every benefit and privilege we could afford to bestow upon you?”

To that, Aja had no answer, and angrily strode out of the room, leaving Hadiza alone with her father. The tense silence stretched on for longer than was comfortable and Hadiza finally broke it with a sigh.

“You have much to answer for, Bann Trevelyan,” she said coldly, “and no birthing of a pale-skinned son will ever make them accept you. You know that.”

“Easy for you to say,” Edward said bitterly, “you control Southern Thedas.”

“Yes, and I saved the world twice and still I am called every slur they can concoct in Orlais and Ferelden both.” Hadiza countered.

Edward laughed. “Do not lament your plight, Hadiza. Not while you happily and willingly lie with the Red General himself.” Hadiza’s nostrils flared angrily and she lifted her chin.

“I have saved many from their own sins, Bann,” she said in clipped tones, “and Samson is but one of them. What he did was horrific, and he has been judged for it. He is atoning for it, even if it means no one extends him a single scrap of forgiveness—including myself. He will make peace with what he has done, and when…” The truth caught her words like a noose about the neck, and her voice wavered, nearly broke. She blinked away the tears and swallowed the lump in her throat, “…And when his time comes, he will die a man rehabilitated by his own hand.”

Edward hesitated, watching his daughter closely. Hadiza struggled to seal away the cracks in her facade, to piece together what had chipped away when she revealed for one moment just how painful it was to bear that truth.

“Why do you love him?” Edward asked and there was no malice in his voice.

Hadiza’s face was unreadable. “Why did you love mother?”

To that, Edward had no ready answer.

Hadiza left.

* * *

“We don’t need his fucking help,” Samson growled, “we got the answer. I say we pack it up and get the hell out of here…before I crack the Bann’s skull.” He crossed his arms, leaning back against the wall. The drawing room was relatively large, but the lavish furnishings made it feel small and cloistered. Vivienne had wasted no time in having the servants provide tea and pastry while they waited for Hadiza to return.

“And then what shall you do, Samson?” She asked him calmly, “After you’ve killed one of the most important men in Ostwick? You are already a wanted man, and you live only by the grace of the Inquisitor’s gentle heart. Do not let it go to your head that you are somehow untouchable.”

That sobered him, and Samson made a noise of disgust. She was right, of course, Samson was the last person who needed to be making threats, but he still felt rage at being unable to act when the Bann had struck his own daughter across the face in front of him, and had not even shown the slightest remorse for it.

“If it is any consolation,” Feynriel chimed in, smiling as he broke open a pastry, “she seems to have gained control of her body. The demon cannot fully corrupt her unless she accepts a deal from it.”

“Really?” Dorian asked, “Fascinating. And here I always thought demons had no respect for personal boundaries.”

Feynriel laughed. “Oh no, they lack respect. But there are rules that govern them same as us. It is why they fall under the category of temptation. It tempts her with offers it thinks she cannot refuse.”

“And what happens if it guesses aright?”Vivienne asked, “What happens when it wears down her resolve and we are forced into the worst case scenario?”

There was a weighty silence as they considered the options available.

“It won’t come to that.” Samson said firmly, “I know her. She’s not a weak mage. She won’t give in, even when she’s tired.”

Dorian looked pained. “If it comes down to it, Samson, we need to be able to do what must be done.”

Samson whirled on him. “You’re talking about killing a person. A human being. The Inquisitor. You think you got the stones to do it, Vint? You think you got the stones to look into the eyes of someone who used to be your friend, someone you loved deeply, and cut. Off. Their. Head?”

Dorian swallowed hard. “Yes, Samson. If it came to it, I would do it. For the good of all.”

Samson’s lip curled. “Tough talk coming from someone who never had to murder people they just had chow with earlier. Don’t think I can’t figure out what you’re all thinking. If she turns while we’re here, it falls to me to kill her.”

“And you must.” Vivienne said quietly, but there was no pity in her voice, only a whisper of sadness, “You must. You may have disgraced and corrupted the Order, but you’re the only one who can do this.”

Samson slammed his fist against the wall. “You all don’t seem to understand! I’ve never attended a Harrowing where I had to be the one to strike down the mage, but I’ve fought more than my fair share of abominations. Hadiza is not a weak and cowering mage. She’s strong and willful, and she will fight that demon to the last if she has to. And she is. So stop writing her off as if she’s already lost to us.”

No one said anything after that, and the silence resumed, tense and warbling, until Hadiza opened the door, looking somewhat caught between relief and exasperation.

“Well.” She said, “I got what we came for. I need to sort through it before we decide our next course of action. I’ve already penned letters to Skyhold informing them that we may be gone a while longer. I hope none of you mind an extension of this journey.”

Vivienne set her tea cup down and it didn’t even make so much as a sound when it touched the saucer.

“My dear, we are all here to aid you in whatever you need,” she said gently, sharing a warm smile, “I am sure your advisors have Skyhold well in hand. And doubtless the young spymaster has already made contingency plans to ensure communication remains unimpeded.”

“That’s right,” Dorian said, “we’re in this mess of our own volition. Aside, it’s not as if any of us has anything pressing to do.”

“Speak for yourself, darling.” Vivienne said sweetly. “I simply manage my time better.”

Dorian made a show of clutching his chest in mock indignation. Hadiza laughed despite herself.

“Thank you,” she said, “all of you. It means the world to me that you’d willingly follow me through to the end of this mess. And…as for my family…I apologize that you have not seen them at their best. There are rifts over a decade old no one has sought to mend. As we have time, I suppose you may avail yourselves to the Estate or the city proper as you see fit.” She glanced at Feynriel, smiling. He smiled back, but not nearly as saccharine.

“Samson,” Hadiza said his name and Samson’s head turned as if she’d looped a leash over him, “will you accompany me?”

Samson smiled, the sharp and jagged edges of it softened in her presence, “Whereto, Inquisitor?”

She held out her hand and he took it, ignoring Dorian’s eye roll and scoff as they left the room.

* * *

 

Samson let Hadiza lead him down the hall beyond the solar, and he admired how despite the openness of the estate, the way the sunlight freely poured through the large, high windows, the manor held nothing that denoted it was a true _home_. He knew, for Hadiza, these halls held the trapped eidolons of her past, and Samson briefly imagine her as a young girl, running and shrieking through the halls with her sister. He wondered if she had been a mischievous child, and he knew it had to be true. It was in her smile, at least, that she had once relished in childish pranks. As she led him through a small side room, he stopped, pulling her to him before she stumbled.

“Samson, what—“ Her voice caught as his lips found hers in a kiss that was at once firm and yielding. Hadiza’s arms came up, cupping his face in her hands. There, she repeated the kiss. Once, twice, thrice. Smiling, Samson pressed his forehead against her own, shutting his eyes.

“What is it?” Hadiza whispered, thumbs gently rubbing at his temples, making him feel heady and relaxed beneath her gentle touch.

“Nothing.” He murmured, “I just missed being able to do that.”

Hadiza’s smile grew wider. “Was there a time where you could not?” She asked and Samson opened his eyes to fix her with a wry look. She bit her lip, stifling a laugh.

“Where are you taking me?” He asked her. Hadiza lifted her head, kissing the tip of his nose, then the tender furrow between his brows. Samson felt as if he were receiving some unspoken blessing in that moment, with her standing in the sunlight, dark skin glowing, and her eyes filled to the brim with a love he felt unworthy of even now.

“Somewhere I do not wish to go alone.” She replied. Samson nodded, understanding and yet not, but he followed her lead, further into the sprawling mansion until they came upon a door. It was gilded with gold filigree, and Samson made out an elaborate ‘H’ within the pattern, wreathed in elegantly wrought vines and roses. Samson understood then, where she had led them.

“Father said the answers mother left me are in here, per her request.” Hadiza said, never taking her eyes from the ornate door. “I have not been here since I first came into my powers.”

And he understood then why she wanted him there.

Samson stepped forward, lacing their fingers, and giving her hand a firm squeeze.

“I’m with you.” He said to her and she turned her head, tearing her eyes from the door to look at him. Her smile was fragile, like frost clinging to the earth during spring’s first rebellious push for life.

Hadiza reached for the handle, turning it slowly, and pushed the door open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts, feelings, suggestions, concerns can all be left in the comment box if you're down! Otherwise...uh...I got nothin'. <3


	20. Legacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exactly what the name of the chapter implies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for implied/referenced rape.

Aja had never thought she would ever lose her temper again. She had promised she would never let someone else make her lose control, made the promise when she gave her life over to the high seas and shed her privilege and wealth, peeling away the trappings of title and blood to become something greater than some nobleman’s wife.

Herself. She had sought to become herself.

And she had found it! Maker, she had toiled and suffered and clawed her way out of the skin that was not her own to become what she was. She had been respected, feared, and adored for it. She had been hated too, but that was never an issue.

She had become a fearsome warrior, even before she took the dragon’s blood into herself, suffusing herself with the violent maelstrom that even in her most serene, swept about like a brutal wind beneath her skin. The red rings around her silver eyes no longer repulsed her, for she had shed vanity long ago when her face had been horribly scarred.

Bann Trevelyan could never understand what it took for Aja to reach the identity she now openly claimed, and he sought to shame her for it.

Aja’s hand tightened on the rude wood of the fence she leaned against. The training yard was empty, but she could read the footprints of a dozen spars in the dirt from her vantage point. She could hear the labored breathing of the memories that welled up like blood from an old wound. She could hear the clash of steel, hear the crunch of dirt.

She heard Old Ricardo’s voice from the sidelines. Heard him even though he did not yell, but his voice carried sure and strong, correcting her footwork, scolding her for cutting corners, remaining obstinate and silent when she fought correctly. She heard Hadiza’s child self, shrieking with laughter as she leapt effortlessly and deftly about, a blade in either hand.

“It has not been the same since the two of you left.” A voice said and Aja was thrown back into the bleak present, the training yard silent, the eidolons unraveling and vanishing like morning mist. She glanced over her shoulder to see her father standing there, and schooled her face to imperceptible calm.

“I had thought, that after you were expelled from the Order, that would train new guardsmen, and make of our own troops a force to be reckoned with,” Edward continued, mindful of the watchful silver gaze that tracked him as surely as a hunter with a drawn bow. “I had hoped that your disgrace could be redeemed, and then…”

“Did you come here to remind me of the past or did you want something?” Aja demanded, not wanting to hear any more. Edward smiled, laughing self-deprecatingly.

“The truth, child is that I am not sure what I want. Seeing the two of you again has bled old memories to the surface that I had thought to forget. Seeing the two of you is like looking Evangeline in the face, and yet not. I had mercifully forgotten my grief at her passing, and my shame when you left home to become a forsaken raider.”

Aja lifted her chin, defiant. “You speak of shame as if it has shaped you, and mayhap it has. But so too has it shaped me. What you view in me as a source of shame, I have taken it and made it a source of strength. Had you but trusted in me, had more faith in me, I could have led our House without a husband to collar me. But shame has not made you humble, only foolish and prideful.”

“I will raise my son,” Edward said harshly, “and he will succeed where the two of you failed. Your sister’s affliction cannot be helped without making her Tranquil. But yours…your affliction would ruin our House. You would stymie our succession with your hedonism.”

Aja laughed, bitter as bile and twice as scathing. “Hedonism? Is that what you call it? You, who threw lavish parties in hopes that the Twelve would finally, finally treat you as the equal you are instead of like a common man in the street? You made the choice to marry mother, you squandered the Trevelyan fortune on your parties, and now you cry foul when those years availed you nothing.”

Edward seemed ready to strike his daughter, but he saw the glimmer of something in her eyes, like the shadow of a great leviathan passing beneath murky waters. He took a deep breath and thought better of it.

“What I have done, I have always done for the good of the Trevelyan name, for the good of our family. It is my own business and social acumen that has seen that we are still a respected name in this city at all.” He said calmly. Aja smiled incredulously.

“More like a step above social pariahs,” she laughed, “when is the last time any of the Twelve sent you an invitation to anything aside the obligatory council meetings? Even with your pretty, cool and pale wife, they still don’t see you as anything but a necessary tolerance.”

“Do you hate me so, Aja?” Edward asked, “Do you despise me so much that you care not if our family name is dragged through the mud from your sister’s…mistakes?” Aja spread her arms, palms up, and shrugged her shoulders.

“Neither myself nor Hadiza are due to inherit a single silver from you now that your lighter skinned son has proven to be healthy and not a mage. It is only a matter of grooming that will solidify his place as your sole heir. Why should I care what happens to House Trevelyan, when House Trevelyan fed me to the wolves?” Edward’s eyes were hard, glittering with anger and stung pride, and Aja reveled in it, sipped from the cup of pain her father so readily provided. This was her vindication, her vengeance, and his comeuppance in her eyes. She felt no pity or sympathy for the man, and she let her reopened wound sing the agony of the justice that was denied her.

“You killed someone, Aja. I could not defend against that.” Edward said at last and Aja scoffed maliciously, and then spat between them, contempt plain on her scarred face.

“The hell you could!” She hissed, “You know what that boy did to me. You know his violation went beyond the mere slur he flung at me at every conceivable opportunity. I would have let him live had it been only that. But no, he took it further. He _had_ to die.” Aja’s anger flared, making her skin flush hotly beneath her armor, and her face burned with renewed shame as the memory she had shied from was dragged to light.

“There was no evidence!” Edward countered, “And he was the son of one of the most powerful families of the Twelve! Your murdering him is the reason our path to becoming one of the respected rulers of this city has been impeded at every turn!”

Aja felt angry and frustrated tears burn in her eyes. Unlike the pain of physical wounds and the sight of her own blood, the Reaver in her could not be summoned by emotional anguish. So she suffered, vulnerable and unprotected by the Reaver, who so often shielded her from her own pain. Words crowded her mouth, jumbled and disconnected, without theme or coherence. There was too much to say, too fast.

“So you would blame me for my own rape?” She asked him, disbelieving. “You would set your ambitions higher than the safety of your own flesh and blood?” Edward said nothing and Aja tried hard to rein in the pain she felt, but the wound was wide open, the blood flowing freely along with her tears.

“I hope when you finally die,” Aja said quietly, “that your soul never knows peace. That you are tormented by your cruel misdeeds from here unto eternity. I curse you, Edward Trevelyan, I curse your name, your House, and your legacy.”

“You are no mage, Aja,” Edward said in a hard voice, “despite your envy of your sister being one. Your curses shall never take root. Empty threats do not become you.”

“That may be,” Aja said as she began to walk back toward the house, “but I hope your line ends with your son and House Trevelyan crumbles into ignominy all the same.”

She left him standing there, a bitterly cold, moist wind blowing in from the sea.

* * *

The room was at once unchanged and entirely different. So much had changed in the 17 years since her departure to the Circle, and yet everything remained intact, draped in sheets to keep away the dust. Hadiza had thought that mayhap finding her mother’s legacy would be hard, but there it was, in plain sight, at the foot of Hadiza’s old childhood bed.

“Well,” Samson laughed, “this almost seems too easy.” Hadiza said nothing, walking forward toward the large trunk. It was made of fine oak, strong and thick, and banded with iron. Hadiza frowned as she came to inspect the trunk closely. The iron had not ablated to rust in all the time the trunk had likely been sitting there.

“Could be new…” Samson offered, “let’s have a look, shall we?” He reached for it and Hadiza caught his wrist firmly.

“No.” She said, “It could be a trap…”

Samson laughed. “Why the hell would your mother booby trap anything she left for you?” He reached for the trunk again and Hadiza barely had time to summon a shield as his hand came in contact with the iron lock. The flash of light was brilliant and the blow struck true. Samson was knocked clear of the trunk, hurled backward, his armor leaving a deep impression in the crown molding of the wall next to the door. He let out a pained sound that was at once a groan and a growl, falling to his knees. Hadiza went to him, immediately reaching for healing magic to search him for injuries. He waved her off.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he grumbled, trying to get to his feet, “Maker’s balls that hurt! I’d almost forgotten what it was like to be struck by an arcane bolt. And a strong one. Some trap!”

Hadiza’s brows furrowed. “That’s not possible. My mother wasn’t a mage. She couldn’t have constructed this ward.”

Samson finally got to his feet, leaning over, hands on his knees, catching his breath as his lungs burned from the blow.

“Well shit, didn’t you mention somethin’ about your mother canoodling with the knight-commander of your Circle? She could have had a mage contact there make it for her.” He finally caught his breath and stood up straight. Hadiza cast a glance back at the trunk, which appeared harmless. It had only been one trap, but there was no telling what other layers of magic were beneath it.

“Maybe we oughta fetch the Vint,” Samson breathed, “just to be safe.”

Hadiza nodded. “Yes. You’re right. And Vivienne as well.”

When they assembled the rest of the group, Dorian laughed.

“Hadiza, you had ostentatious tastes for a child,” he examined the walls, “honestly…filigree? Everywhere? And your _door_ …”

“It was a present for my birthday!” Hadiza protested, “I liked the patterns. Aside, filigree is always in style.” She lifted her chin a fraction, haughty and superior.

“Not in this shade, darling.” Vivienne quipped calmly, taking the wind from Hadiza’s sails as easily as they had been filled. “Perhaps a softer more understated gold. The entire room is garish, even beneath the veritable seabed of dust.”

Hadiza pursed her lips, decidedly no longer thrilled with the conversation of her prepubescent self’s taste in home decor.

“Well, we’re not here to redecorate my childhood room,” she said, “we’re here to open that chest.”

“Quite.” Vivienne said with a warm smile. Hadiza smiled back. Dorian was already squatting in front of the chest, mindful of any wards that may have been woven into the wood and metal.

“Hadiza, you sure your mother was not a mage?” He asked, motioning for her to join him. Hadiza came to squat beside him.

“If she was, she hid it with consummate skill.” She replied, “Why?” Dorian pointed to the bands of iron.

“Hold your hand above this point here and focus. You feel that? Where the thrum of magic is strongest? There are multiple wards on this chest. Each layer is a completely different spell, all intersecting perfectly at a specific section in each layer, like a weave. Do you know the level of precision it takes for such a feat? No Circle mage did this.” Dorian didn’t touch the chest, despite wanting so badly to.

“That’s fascinating and all,” Samson said, “and I’d love to chat about the mechanics of it sometime. But how does she get it open?”

To that, Dorian had no immediate answer, and instead began to examine the chest further. To the untrained eye, it appeared as if he were merely staring intently at it, but his eyes were sharp, unblinking, and unerringly focused. Hadiza waited.

“The spells are tightly packed, stacked all throughout the wood and iron,” Dorian said at last, “my guess is that any attempt to physically open this chest would be met with brutal force. No, magic protects this thing, and so it must be magic that opens it.”

“Yes,” Vivienne, “but what kind of magic? We cannot simply fling raw spells about and hope something takes. That much twisting of the Veil is sure to call something forth not unlike Hadiza’s occupant.”

Hadiza winced. She wished Vivienne wouldn’t call the demon that. She made it sound as if she’d invited the demon into herself willingly.

“Perhaps,” Feynriel said quietly, so quiet one might not have heard him were they not listening, “perhaps it’s not a question of _what_ magic, but _whose_ magic.” Hadiza’s brows went up as Feynriel’s clear and unnerving gaze settled on her. Vivienne turned to look at him.

“That’s nonsense, child,” she said seriously, “magic is magic regardless of the mage who casts it.”

Dorian smiled. “Not necessarily,” he countered, “while we all learn the same spells, every mage has a signature that makes their spells uniquely their own. A sort of…aura, so to speak.” Vivienne’s nose wrinkled somewhat at the notion, being Circle-trained, but she said nothing in opposition.

“You speak of blood magic,” Samson said in a dangerous tone.

Dorian sighed. “Always with the blood magic. Is that all you associate with Tevinter? Goodness, I had no idea you rustics were so boorish in your diplomacy. Well, I had some idea, but you all are so woefully ignorant as to how magic works if it does not fit into the Chantry’s doctrine.”

Dorian gestured to the chest. “What Feynriel speaks of is not blood magic, but what the scholars loosely refer to as ‘legacy casting.’”

At the questioning gazes he sighed again. “Must I hold a lecture on everything outside your scope of interest? Legacy casting refers to spells tailored specifically for a child of the mage’s own blood to be able to access. It typically encompasses the gamut of wards of protection, such as you see here on the chest. However, legacy casting can also be used to ensure that children of the mage in question are never harmed by the mage’s spells.” His face darkened, “Or _only_ children of the mage are harmed by the mage’s spells.”

“Everything’s got a fuckin’ price.” Samson said darkly, crossing his arms. “So this chest’s got a legacy spell on it? Just how is Hadiza supposed to open it?”

Dorian took Hadiza’s right hand, gentle, his gaze questioning. She shrugged. Dorian guided her hand to the heavy padlock and her fingers instinctively curled around the cold metal.

“Simply…turn the lock.” Dorian explained. Brow furrowing in obvious confusion, Hadiza tentatively turned the padlock.

The metal bent as easily as if it were made of dough. All at once, the chest glowed, flaring brightly, tendrils of magic wrapping around Hadiza’s arm, like ghosts reaching from the Fade to touch the living. Then all of the light drained, swirling like a whirlpool, downward into the keyhole of the lock in Hadiza’s hand. In the silence that followed, the chest’s top lifted, soundless on its hinges, and the smell of peonies rose up from inside. Hadiza’s hand went to her mouth, stifling her cry of surprise.

“Are you alright?” Dorian asked. Hadiza nodded wordlessly, blinking away tears, yet some escaped.

“Are you…” Vivienne came to her, “My dear what ever is the matter?”

Hadiza shook her head, unable to speak. When she took her hand from her mouth, she was smiling.

“Peonies.” She said. “My mother loved peonies. She always smelled like them and so she used to put them all over my room so that I would go to sleep as a child.” She dashed the tears from her eyes quickly, taking Vivienne’s proffered monogrammed kerchief. “I’m sorry, I just…I wasn’t expecting that.”

“It’s quite alright,” she said softly, then frowned, “but what was your mother keeping for you that would drive her to protect it this much?”

Hadiza tucked away the kerchief and leaned over to peer inside. She frowned.

“Well, that’s disappointing,” Samson said, peering over her shoulder, “it’s a book.”

“It’s a journal.” Hadiza corrected. “But I don’t understand…why keep this in such a large trunk?” Hadiza reached down, and took the journal, and then saw why. It shimmered into view like a mirage on the crest of a dune. She squinted as the shapes morphed and glittered into existence; a vambrace, a cuirass, a pair of greaves, boots, gloves, armored leggings, and a quilted top.

A staff.

“Well.” Samson said with a laugh, “I stand corrected. You _sure_ your mother wasn’t a mage?”

“Yes!” Hadiza cried, agitated, “If she had been a mage there would have been some sort of sign…wouldn’t there? You’re a templar, Samson, how can you tell if there’s a mage in your midst?”

Samson rubbed at his chin, scratching the stubble along his neck.

“That’s a tough one. Usually the staff is a dead giveaway. But you all tend to reach for your magic like a drink of water. We…we’re trained to feel that. Like a tingle at the base of the skull. It’s how we know to be at the ready. Can be hell on the senses when there’s a whole gaggle of you about, though.”

Hadiza laughed, more to beat back her hysteria than anything.

“Father said she did not inherit her family’s magic. So why would she have this?”

Dorian tapped the journal. “Perhaps the answer’s in there.”

Hadiza glanced down at the tome, thick with yellowed pages, bound closed only by a silk cord. Embossed upon its cover was an elaborate coat of arms: a shield, and on either side was a rearing unicorn. Hadiza ran her fingertips over the design, blinking, trying to place which House it belonged to.

“That ain’t Marcher colors.” Samson deduced and Hadiza glanced up at him briefly, then back down at the journal.

“No,” she murmured, “it’s Rivaini. This must be the coat of arms of her family.”

She glanced back into the large chest, down at the armor, polished and well-cared for, glittering silver and gold, the staff sturdy and wickedly and elegantly crafted. Hadiza bit her lip. Such fine armor and a staff would be a welcome upgrade from her current rags, but she felt…unworthy. The armor felt too personal, as if it were not meant for her, not truly.

“So here’s where you’re all hiding,” Aja said from the doorway, “Maker! Hadiza I’d forgotten how ugly your room was.” She made her way inside, coming to stand next to Feynriel. “Why does everyone look so shocked and awed…?” Seeing the chest, she peered inside. At first, her expression was unreadable, and then she frowned, saying nothing.

“Alright,” Hadiza said climbing to her feet, “I think this will take time for me to decipher, so my orders from earlier still stand: avail yourself to Ostwick and the Estate as you wish. When I’ve found what I’m looking for, I’ll let you all know.”

“My dear do you even know what it is you’re looking for?” Vivienne asked, “I very much doubt your mother planned for the contingency of your possession and wrote explicit instructions in that book.” Hadiza smiled tightly.

“Of course she didn’t. But she may have inadvertently left clues to guide me in the direction I need to go to find an ultimate solution. This is no different than any other research I’ve done. For now, let’s just enjoy our time here while we can. I’ve a feeling things will get rather exciting again soon.”

* * *

 

Samson and Hadiza rode back to the inn later that evening. She took the coach, and he took Nyx, and when they arrived, Hadiza stripped out of her clothing and ran a bath, only this time, they shared it. Her mother’s journal sat like a lodestone on the small dining table. Fitting herself between Samson’s spread legs, she leaned back against his chest, tipping her head back to rest it on his shoulder.

“Does it still hurt?” He asked her, indicating her arm. The infection covered most of it, the glow dimmed, but no less garish. Hadiza flexed her fingers on instinct, making a sound of discomfort.

“Like all perpetual pain, it becomes…an undercurrent in my life,” she explained, “it is there, and has become so constant I almost forget what it feels like to not be in pain.”

Samson frowned, taking her hands in his. “That’s no good, princess. You’re too young to be falling apart.”

Hadiza chuckled. “And you’re not yet old enough to be lecturing me about my age.”

“I’m almost fifty.”

“A fair point.”

They reclined together in languor, content despite Hadiza’s undercurrent of pain, and Samson was reminded that he too no longer felt the ache in his bones keenly. He no longer thought of the hot, piercing pain of the corruption on the days he had to will himself to rise every morning. He watched the twining of their fingers through the rising steam, and wondered why he was alive at all…and not for the first time. Thus far, he had born the vitriol of a nation, of a patriarch, and of commoners who recognized his face. And yet, it did not sting him and discourage him as much as he thought it would.

He knew from the moment he chose to walk the path of redemption that it would be barbed and jagged, twisting and leading to dead ends. He expected no mercy, no empathy, no pity. He expected no gratitude and no praise. As it had been before his fall from grace, his purpose now was thankless and arduous.

Perhaps that’s why he had come to love her so much.

“What do you think you’ll find in that book?” He asked her, releasing her hands to press his hands against her back. He immediately applied pressure with his thumbs, smiling when she grunted and then groaned with relief. He’d learned a thing or two about how to untangle the knots of a human body, but still couldn’t work out his own snarls.

“I don’t know,” she said, head tipping forward as she slipped her hair over one shoulder to allow him greater access, “I suppose I’ll find more than I bargained for, as usual. But I do not…mmm…right there. I do not think she was a mage.”

Samson’s thumbs smoothed up the sinuous line of her back, lingering on the tender and aching muscle between her shoulder blades. She let out a shameless groan as he eased the tension, and nearly submerged herself in the water from the sensation.

“Easy, princess,” Samson chuckled, “don’t melt in here.”

“Can’t help it…” she mumbled in the water. He pulled her back, leaning in to kiss the nape of her neck gently.

“What makes you think your mother wasn’t a mage? From the skill of that protection magic, I’d say hiding her magic was as easy as breathing to her.” Samson’s lips traced the line of her neck and Hadiza tilted her head aside to allow him to travel unhindered.

“I know she wasn’t,” she replied, tilting her head back to lean against him, “had she been she would have turned herself into the Circle. She was a faithful Andrastian. Put the other noble wives to shame in her devotion to the faith.”

“Could have been a front to throw them off her scent.” Samson countered. Hadiza sucked her teeth in annoyance.

“Knight-Commander Frederick would have known, and he would have taken her to the Circle himself. The man did nothing but devote himself to his duty. Even my mother could not sway him of that.” She gazed up at the ceiling, sighing.

Samson’s arms came around her, offering a comfort he knew she needed but would never give voice to.

“Love makes a man do things akin to madness, princess,” he explained, “even shirk duty.”

Hadiza sat up. “How would you know?”

Samson said nothing, but there was a pain in his heart he hadn’t expect to feel.

“You’re a smart girl, but you can be a bit daft at times,” he said sourly. Hadiza frowned.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to imply that you didn’t…shit.” She hesitated. “I hope you don’t mean to tell me that you are enduring all of this for my sake.”

Samson shook his head. “Yes and no. I fuckin’ love you, Hadiza. That’s not a secret anymore, even if people want to pretend I don’t. So yeah, part of my willingness to come on this journey is because of you. The other part is because I want to.”

Hadiza felt the words of her father echo in her head, joined by the demon. An endless refrain, at once accusatory and taunting.

 _Why do you love him? Why do you love him? Whydoyou_ **_lovehim_ ** _?_

“I love you!” She blurted out, more to drown out the demon’s voice than anything. Samson’s brows went up.

“That’s…good to know, princess.” He laughed. Hadiza ran her fingers through her hair and made a sound of frustration.

“Not what I meant!” She cried, and Samson blinked. “I mean…it _is_ what I meant. I just…I don’t know _why_ I do.”

Samson nodded. “You think you need a reason?” He asked. Hadiza adjusted to turn and face him fully.

“No. Yes. I don’t know. Maybe.” She said lamely.

“That’s a lot of answers, princess.” He teased, “If it’s any help, I can’t really pin a reason why I love you either. But we can figure that out later. You’ve got studying to do.”

As they climbed out of the tub to dry off, Hadiza turned, leaning up to press a chaste kiss on Samson’s cheek. As she turned to leave, he pulled her back for a full kiss, relishing the taste of her mouth.

“Mm…I thought you said I had studying to do.” Hadiza murmured.

Samson nipped her lush lower lip. “I might have been hasty. You just look damn good when you’re out of the bath.”

“But the studying…” Hadiza said in a mock plaintive voice. Samson laughed, delivering a sharp slap to her rear.

“Alright, alright,” he conceded, “get to it. But don’t stay up too late. You’ve got to show me around town tomorrow.”

Hadiza shrugged into her silk robe. “Raleigh, I barely know my way around Ostwick myself. I couldn’t possibly show you anything.”

“Then we’ll go exploring together, then.” He dodged a slipper with a laugh.

“Fine, first stop: the Chantry.”

“You may have your jest, Inquisitor.”

Hadiza placed her hands on her hips. “Oh, it’s _Inquisitor_ now, is it? Are we working?”

_Why do you love him?_

“We can be if you’d get your ass over here.”

_Why do you love him?_

“But the studying…”

_Why do you love him?_

“Sod the bloody studying, princess. Tackle that with a fresh mind in the morning.”

Hadiza made her way over to him, tugging the sash of her robe and peeling out of it as she did.

“Alright, Ser Samson. Time to go to work.” She said in her best Inquisitor voice. Samson grinned, grasping her hips and tugging her toward the bed.

“As you will, Inquisitor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I'm just a wee bit proud of how I wrote the dialogue.


	21. Transfiguration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hadiza does some light reading.

“Why do you persist?” Hadiza felt her own voice rather than heard it, “I will never accept your offer.”

Sethius, the pride demon who wore a face that was at once familiar and not, smiled at her from the Inquisition throne. He raised two fingers, beckoned her forward, and Hadiza stood where she was, pitting her will against his.

“Never is a long, long time, Inquisitor.” It said, that deep and pervasive voice hollowing her out, making her feel as if there were no room in her for breath. She began to pant, swallowing hard, trying to keep him out. Sethius stood, rising like a living shadow to descend the dais, moving with a ponderous and foreboding purpose. He stood over her, casting her completely in his shadow.

“You do not have the luxury of time,” the demon told her, “and I have already tasted the very essence of your soul. Pride thrives in you as surely as if you wanted me there.” He poked her chest with his finger, barely touching, but Hadiza felt something disgusting within herself, as if every vile atrocity that ever surfaced in her thoughts was suddenly bubbling to the surface like sewage and bile. She felt sick, having the demon this close.

“There will come a time when your magic is not enough,” the demon said, “when you are not enough. And like every mage before you, and every mage that shall come after, you will ask for more. And when you do, I will be waiting.”

Hadiza whirled away from him, face to face with herself. Her reflection was covered in red veins, and from her head spiraled the wicked, curved horns of a pride demon.

Seven eyes opened to crinkle in a smile the fanged mouth of her reflection could not make.

Hadiza woke up, jolted from her sleep as she sat up, catching her breath. Instantly, she touched her forehead, feeling the smooth skin and finding no extra eyes, only the slick feel of her sweat. As her vision adjusted to the cool darkness of pre-dawn, Hadiza glanced around. Samson lay on his belly, snoring, fast asleep. The sun would be rising soon, and she knew with it would come work, so she slid out of bed, shivering beneath her robe as she made her way to the washroom. There, under magelight, Hadiza examined herself. Untying thesash of her robe, she opened it, let it slide down her shoulders to look at her body in the shined pane of the mirror. Her skin had regained some of its vibrancy, but the red veins were nearly at her shoulder, their glow muted in the garish light of her magic.

There were a few scars on her torso, mostly from near-misses, and one on her hip from an arrow, but those she glossed over without fuss. There had been a time she would have wept to see her skin marred so, to see her beauty diminished in what she perceived as the closest she would come to perfection. She no longer felt at odds with her appearance so long as she did not let her gaze linger too long on the raised, silvery scar tissue.

Hadiza shut her robe, tied it off, and leaned over to wash her face.

When she returned to the main room, Samson still slept, and she she went to sit at the table, staring at the heavy, silk-bound book on the table. She took a deep breath, ran her fingers over the elaborate embossment for what felt like the hundredth time, and then gently slid the silk cord off of the cover. The book expanded a little, free of its binding, and when she opened the cover, she caught the faint ghost of a scent of crushed peonies. Hadiza bit her lip, smiling both in remembrance and anticipation. She turned to the first page, and began to read. 

* * *

 

_16 Kingsway_

 

_It has been twelve years since my exile, and I well and truly believe that I shall never find purpose._

_In my family, it is disgraceful for a blooded warrior to sell their sword to whomever has need of it, to rent out their hard-won skills to folk who may or may not lack scruples. But they have never had to struggle for coin, or food to eat. None of them have ever had to live in exile for crimes committed. I regret none of my choices save the one, but I regret not asking for more. I, who had never known a day’s struggle in my life, did not know the worth of my own sword arm, only the certainty and security I could bring to skittish merchants seeking to traverse unmolested._

_I earned my coin, and I was content for a while._

_Until Edward._

_I had never met a more foolish boy in my life. He fancied himself a swordsman of surpassing skill, boasting of his countrymen’s Grand Tourney, and how he some day wished to compete. He puffed out his chest and strode about, a young lordling with barely any experience to know that such boasts could be collected by those who would have his head as a trophy._

_I found him beset by bandits one day. He was, to his credit, a swordsman of passable skill, but he was quite outnumbered. And so I, being the charitable woman that I am, endeavored to aid him._

_And ah! It was a fight. We fought as if the very spirits guided our steps, our swords weaving in circuitous patterns. Where my sword arced, blood followed, crimson droplets sprayed upon the dirt in the weak and watery sunlight. Edward was panting, smiling from ear to ear as our eyes met, a gap between his two front teeth, the sun glittering in his woolen hair._

_I smiled back._

_Were we undone for one another that day, I wonder? I will never know. What followed would have followed and there was little choice in the matter for either of us. I suppose, had I not been exiled, Edward and I may never have crossed paths. We Rivaini are very attached to our homeland, and few aside from the raiders ever venture to foreign seas and foreign soil. I had always wondered what lay beyond our borders, weaned on tall tales about the Free Marches and their backward customs and terrible food. About Orlais and their glittering orgies, although I learned of those via eavesdropping on the elders. Of Ferelden and how they apparently fucked their own dogs, though I think that is an exaggeration._

_Stranger things have happened, however._

_Now, we are to wed, and I wonder, as I shed the last vestiges of my old life, what has become of my sister._

_The thought chills me, so I will speak of it no more. There is still the matter of my wedding, and conditions set by Edward’s parents—his mother especially._

_Edward is Andrastian, and as such, for him to take me as his wife, I too must be Andrastian. I told him I would pretend for the sake of his family but he seemed earnest. He said I needed conviction, that I needed to let the Chant of Light into my heart and embrace it with all of myself. I have a hard time reconciling this loving version of Andraste and the Chantry with the armored men and women with swordsbearing the sunburst symbol of the faith storm our lands and put nonbelievers to the sword. We are taught of the Chantry’s deception in Rivain, and even the poorest peasant’s child knows not to trust the people of the blood-sun._

_I did not tell Edward this, however. No, the coward that I am, afraid to lose him, decided I would embrace Andraste._

_After all, my family had exiled me, and Rivain was no longer my home. Why continue to offer up salutations to the spirits and observe the traditions when my own had turned me out? I say to hell with the spirits, the Fade, the seers, and the battlemages. Let them continue to practice their bush magic._

_My place is here, in Ostwick, now._

* * *

 

Hadiza stopped reading, swallowing hard. It was so strange, to hear her mother’s voice in her head, despite the young, bright voice that was inked upon the weathered page beneath her fingertips. Hadiza skimmed the passage again, dispensing her magelight for the sunrise that poured into the room. Samson was beginning to rouse, and she realized that it was perhaps the first time she had ever gotten up before him. She flipped briefly through the book, leafing the pages gently. Then, she skipped to the back cover and deliberately shut the book. She did not want to see the final journal entry her mother made; not yet, anyway. She turned the journal over in her hands, surprised at its weight, and then simply opened to the middle of it and began to read again.

* * *

— _never did I think I would shed my name for the sake of love._

_It was one of the conditions his mother laid out for me upon his declaration of his desire to marry me. She was a stern old crone, with small eyes that glittered with a hidden malice. And her skin was light--almost as light as the people who looked upon us with the same open disdain she did when she first met me. She turned her gaze upon her son, and said: “Did lightening our family never occur to you, my son?”_

_At first, I did not understand what she meant. Later, when Edward was cloistered on his family’s Estate, I explored Ostwick, and realized what she meant._

_I am not new to slurs, and I know what they call us—those who look like us—when they think we can’t hear them._

_Mudskin. It would not be so vile if there was not so much hatred and stigma loaded into it. My sister used to tell me they were just words, but she had always been a pacifist in the face of those who would do us harm, physical or otherwise. I am a born and bred warrior._

_When I attempted to speak to a smith about the repair of my armor and sword, he turned up his nose at me, claiming he did not do business with my kind. When I asked why, he spat the word at me like a cornered asp and slammed the door in my face._

_Ostwick is a large city, and he was not the only smith in town, just one of the best._

_I told Edward about the encounter later and his response surprised me. He merely shrugged, as if I had merely sought to discuss the weather, kissed my cheek, and told me not to worry about it._

_I suppose I didn’t worry for a few days, but the smith’s ability to be open and unmitigated in his contempt with impunity, and in public, unnerved me. No one had come to my defense during that display. In Rivain, such individuals mask their contempt for our skin lest they face retaliation…a ‘clapback’ if you will, which I found to be amusing. Why would you harbor such vitriol for a people, and then choose to live among them? Our Queen is as black in skin as I, why would anyone wish to live under the rule of someone whose skin they hate?_

_The next day, his mother summoned me into the solar, presumably to discuss the terms of our engagement._

_She laid out her terms, and while I knew conversion to Andrastianism was non-negotiable, her final term was a jolt of ice water to the senses._

_“You must take not only the Trevelyan name, but a name worthy of the faith,” she said to me, her eyes glimmering with cruelty, a small smile on her lips, “we will not have it said that we allowed a Rivaini heathen into our midst.”_

_And I, who had been exiled and disgraced, had no way to truly gainsay her. My name had always been an integral part of me. In my homeland we are named with attributes we will seek to embody as we grow. Elaborate naming ceremonies are held for newborn infants seven days from their birth. I had been anointed with honey, bitter kola, liquor, salt, and sugar when I received my name as an infant. I had earned my right to bear my family’s surname through trial by fire and fury. I had bled into my name every facet of myself and sought to embody the attributes bestowed upon me by traditions older than Andraste and her Chant._

_And this old crone wanted me to give all of that up to marry her son. No, she wanted me to give all of it up to save face._

_I was angrier than I’d ever been, and she knew it. I was affronted, but I was cornered. With no home to go back to, and no direction or purpose in my life, I was trapped. This was the most advantageous course of action for me and ah, I loved Edward! Truly, I did. Had it not been for the trappings of his noble House, I would have gladly given up so much for him._

_But my name…Maker…my name was all I had left of my heritage. It was the only thing I had been permitted to keep, barring what I stole from my House._

_After much deliberation, I knew I had been beaten and so I agreed to her terms._

_The christening would be held the following day, and I went to bed that night, filled with guilt, shame, anger, and dread. She had known I would agree and had arranged for it in anticipation of my compliance. I lay awake, wondering what would happen when I gave up the last vestiges of my heritage left to me. Come sunrise, I would be anointed and born anew as a proper Andrastian—a child of the Maker._

_Come sunrise, Maribasse Fayé would be no more._

* * *

Hadiza pressed her fist to her fist to her mouth with a gasp, biting her lip. So many things crowded in her chest, hollowing her out as she imagined the sacrifice her mother made of herself for the sake of love. She ran her fingertips over the words on the page, imagined a younger version of her mother penning these memories, emptying her heart onto the paper because there was no where else to place the burden. She had been alone and without friends, a foreigner unwelcome in a land that viewed her as less than. She was of Rivaini nobility and yet House Trevelyan had treated her as if Edward had brought in a stray dog off the street and begged to keep it.

But Hadiza wondered why her mother had been exiled from her House. What crime had she committed that was so heinous that she dared not name it in her own private journal?

Samson was up, then, stretching and yawning and groaning as his old bones cracked and popped. Hadiza saw him rolling his right shoulder slowly, tentatively, and she remembered he’d shifted from wielding a sword and shield to wielding a two-handed sword. Her thoughts were everywhere; on Samson, who was now coming toward her, and on the past…on her mother, who suffered and languished in a house that hated her very existence. All for the sake of her father.

She half-heartedly returned the gentle kiss he gave her, absently leaning into him as his dry lips found the side of her neck. It gave her some comfort, but not much.

“Find anything useful?” He asked.

“Not yet, only that my mother’s path to marriage was not as simple as love and determination.” She answered with a smile, trying to keep her pain at bay. Samson watched her for a moment, but said nothing.

“Well, you know you can talk to me about it when you do.” He said at last and Hadiza nodded wordlessly, knowing exactly what he meant. She kissed him gently, making him grin before he left her, a lingering caress along her silk-clad shoulder, as he went to the washroom. Hadiza turned her attention back to the journal, deliberating.

House Fayé. She wondered if there was anything she could uncover about them, and who she could ask about Rivaini noble houses.

* * *

 “What makes you think I would know?” Vivienne asked with mild incredulity as Hadiza walked with her through the estate’s gardens. They were alone, of course, Hadiza having shooed the servants away to attend to other duties, leaving the two women free to discuss their speculations openly.

“You had the ear of the Empress,” Hadiza said with a laugh, “and you were involved with the man who was head of the Council in charge of selecting a viable candidate for the throne. Rivain has put itself in a position of influence from their borders clear to Nevarra. There has to be someone tied to the nobility that you took note of.” Vivienne stared straight ahead as they strolled, and Hadiza could not for the life of her read the woman’s face. It was maddening how skillful Vivienne was at keeping her own counsel all the while engaging her contemporaries in idle discourse.

“This is true,” Vivienne said at last, “and there were a number of minor Rivaini nobles at court, but…as you know, Orlais is notoriously prejudiced about those who look like you and I. I do remember there was a particular house seeking an advantageous marriage, and being rebuffed on the basis of having nothing to offer.” She thought for a moment, “Ah, yes. House Kouyaté, I believe. Minor nobility, sought ties with House Valois in order to strengthen their stake in the textile trade.”

Hadiza’s brows rose. “And let me guess, House Valois was not open to the idea of…darkening their own lineage.”

Vivienne’s brows furrowed, though not deeply, and she frowned. “Not only that, but House Valois was trying to curry favor with Grand Duke Gaspard at the time, and could not be seen giving succor to…ah well, you know.”

Hadiza sighed, visibly exasperated with having to face down the same problem yet again.

“It’s a good thing I had the bastard exiled, then,” she huffed, “under his rule Orlais might very well have gotten worse, if that’s possible.”

Vivienne laughed. “Do you still lick the wounds you sustained at Halamshiral, dear? Hadiza we’ve been over this: they will say whatever they wish to find whatever gets beneath the skin. Do you show that they have succeeded, they will tear said skin from the bone.”

“It doesn’t bother you?” Hadiza asked, “That they can treat us so with impunity? That our retaliation to such bigotry is viewed as more inflammatory than the bigotry itself?” Vivienne stopped walking. Hadiza stopped too, and Vivienne faced her, pinning her with a look that was equal parts vulnerable and equal parts _Madame de Fer_.

“Dear girl, if I spent my time retaliating and railing against every single bigoted thing they flung at me, half of the court would be ash, and the other half petitioning the Empress and the Most Holy to make an example of me,” Vivienne said softly, “and before you ask: the Marquis was an exception.”

Hadiza nodded. “You made an example of him without making it explicit as to why,” she murmured, “you knew he’d insult me when he found out I was leading the Inquisition. You knew your guests would understand your true intention behind killing him. Maker…that’s brilliant!”

Vivienne’s silence was enough, but she did anoint Hadiza with an approving gaze. A small smile curved her lips.

“Almost two years later and you just now begin to understand,” Vivienne laughed, “oh never change, my dear.”

Hadiza pursed her lips, but said nothing. The two of them continued to walk, the sun weak and watery overhead, the gravel the only sound beneath their feet. The Estate was too far from the city’s dock’s, and so the shriek of gulls was mercifully absent.

“So you truly know nothing of House Fayé?” Hadiza asked, “You are Rivaini as well, yes? Or was it a short time you spent there before you went to the Circle?”

Vivienne’s brows rose. “My dear while I am of Rivaini descent, much like yourself, I was born in the Free Marches, in Wycome. I was sent to the Ostwick Circle same as you, and I went to Montsimmard soon after my Harrowing. My knowledge of House Fayé is as good as your own, and only because you asked.”

Hadiza sighed, disappointment bowing her shoulders. “Guess it was too much to hope. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You couldn’t possibly offend me, darling. Perhaps we should turn back, and you should get back to reading. I’m certain your dear mother explains her origins further in her journal.”

Hadiza glanced over her shoulder, back toward the house, sighing.

“You’re right, of course.” She murmured. “And father is planning a party, to reintroduce me into society. Now that I’m the Inquisitor, he suddenly doesn’t care that I’m a mage.”

“But he _does_ care that you are involved with that dreadful templar.” Vivienne quipped. Hadiza snorted.

“I know, I know. I am a horrible person. I bed the enemy regularly and even worse, it has nothing to do with corruption. The world thinks I’m extenuating his crimes.” She felt Vivienne watching her, meeting her gaze. “What?”

Vivienne sighed. “My dear, in a sense, you are.”

Hadiza’s nostrils flared. “How so?”

Vivienne gestured absently to the south. “You gave him back his life, Hadiza. When he deserved it least, wanted it least, but needed it most. But have you so much as glanced at the others you have judged?”

Hadiza scoffed. “I spared Alexius. Tevinter washed their hands of him and he had no where to go. He was a veritable pariah. I put him where I knew he would be most useful and could do the most good. Dorian even vouched for his rehabilitation.”

Vivienne said nothing. Hadiza crossed her arms.

“I have glanced at the others, Vivienne. Honestly. I have tried my best to keep heads from rolling. I think a lot of people made a lot of stupid decisions with regards to Corypheus, and now that he’s gone, maybe they can get their good sense back. Killing them won’t bring back the dead, even if it does soothe the survivors.”

“So you will decide how those who survive should feel about the ones who hurt them?” Vivienne asked. “What will you say when they ask you _why_?”

Hadiza turned sharply. “Maker’s balls, Vivienne! What am I supposed to say? What do you want me to say? That this is all some kind of temporary infatuation? That I don’t actually love him and I’m just toying with him to toy with the masses?”

Vivienne’s frowned, more at Hadiza’s uncouth language than her lose of composure.

“ _I_ don’t want you to say anything, my dear,” she said coolly, “but you cannot parade around arm-in-arm with Corypheus’ former second-in-command and then cry foul when you come under fire for it. Granted, I know that what you feel for him is genuine—goodness it can’t possibly be anything else as he offers nothing by way of status or power. But the blood on his hands is immeasurable. And not just counting those in the Order he corrupted. Remember what we found.”

Hadiza could not forget.

“He won’t talk to me about it. I think…I think part of him knows that despite everything, there is no way he can justify that.”

“And you’ll love him anyway?” Vivienne asked. Hadiza didn’t hesitate.

“Yes. As much as I shouldn’t, I do. I wish it were someone else sometimes. I think it would be easier. But it’s not and it isn’t.”

Vivienne smiled. “You’ve chosen a difficult path to walk. But I’ll not gainsay you in this if you’re that determined. I will however remind you periodically that your taste in men is atrocious both in class and in looks.”

Hadiza wrinkled her nose. “He has a certain appeal about him that I fancy. And he makes me laugh.”

“Crude humor does not become a lady of your standing. It’s no small wonder Orlais galls you so.”

“Orlais galls me because Orlais is a terrible place.” Hadiza countered, “At least with him I know there’s more honesty in a smile than there is in anything I’d find in Val Royeaux.” In the distance, a bell chimed. Both women looked up, and then turned to head back toward the manor.

Hadiza knew what her father was planning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, I touched on a subject I and a lot of people who look like me have to endure everyday of our lives.
> 
> Religious imperialism has a detrimental effect on people. One of the common things Christian imperialism did to a lot of non-European countries (particularly African countries, and later to slaves brought over during the Transatlantic Slave Trade), was force them to give up their traditional and given names in favor of Christian names. The slaves were even forced to take on the surname of their owners, and were not allowed to practice any customs, language, or culture from their homeland. This is how a lot of the old ways were lost (although there is still a lot of cultural retention throughout the African Diaspora). Maribasse--now Evangeline--was forced to give up the last vestiges of her Rivaini heritage in order to assimilate into Ostwick and be accepted by the nobility.
> 
> For those who want to know: yes, her children _do_ have Andrastian names, but they are never used, mostly because of the theme of Evangeline trying to cling to her culture very strongly. But Hadiza and Aja do have Andrastian names. Hadiza is 'Evelyn' (the default f!Inquisitor's name), and Aja is 'Tremaine.' But they never use those names.
> 
> Leave your thoughts in the comments if you're down for whatever. *dances with wine*


	22. Oceans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wound over a decade old breaks open. And hell comes with the flow of the blood.

_The name is like a mask, obscuring every part of me. It stifles my speech, my breathing, limits my vision. The name does not fit me because it is not a name whose meaning I embody._

_Evangeline._

_‘Bringer of good news.’_

_If I am anything, according to Edward’s mother, I am the opposite._

_She is lighter than her son, almost pale enough to pass for one of these southerners, but her son is my color. We are alike in that. To her, there is nothing the Chantry can not redeem save for my accident of being born the wrong color._

_“You’ve the eyes that will dazzle them,” she tells me, but there is no kindness in her voice, “but your skin will repulse them. It is our only hope if you are to birth children of the right complexion. After all, Kesson came out just fine.”_

_Kesson. Kesson Trevelyan. Another name I learned when it was too late to turn tail and run back to Rivain. Edward had been married before, and he’d had a son. The mother, sadly, passed during childbirth, but the son lived and thrived, beloved of his cruel matriarchal grandmother. He was set to inherit the entire Trevelyan estate. Any children I give Edward will be Trevelyan in name only._

_What have I done?_

_Edward calls me by my Andrastian name exclusively. For all his boasting and eagerness to tumble me in the fields during our time spent on the road, he has doffed the cloak of his thirst for adventure and becomes increasingly more Bann Trevelyan than anything else. His mother keeps a tight leash on him, and there is no decision he makes without first getting her approval. Any attempts I make to see things done are intercepted. If she approves, I see results, if she does not, Edward comes to me, filled with excuses._

_The latter happens far more often than the former._

_Evangeline, bringer of good news._

_The name is a collar and lead about my throat, and I am a hound-bitch to them, only fit to whelp, tugged along by that foreign and awkward name they call me._

_Evangeline. Evangeline._

_I hate it. I hate to hear him whisper it when we make love, his breath panting in my ear._

_“Eva, Eva, Eva…”_

_I kneel in prayer alongside him during services, my knees cushioned as I bow my head and recite the Chant. I do not miss the looks of disgust and revulsion as my Rivaini accent curls around the wrong syllables, as my R’s roll and my K’s are lodge near the back of my throat. My accent makes the Chant sound like a jest._

_When I return home, the old crone scolds me, says I have not been keeping my lessons. If the heathen in me cannot be prayed away, she would say, then it could be beaten._

_My back grows thick with scars, some earned in battle, many more earned in contrition._

_My movements are restricted, and no longer do I ride astride my charger in leathers and armor, but side-saddle on a docile blond palfrey, in heavy velvet dresses and tightly laced corsets._

_And Marcher women wear the ugliest hats._

_This is my life now. The life of a wife and Andrastian. Some days, I almost forget who I once was, so caught up in routine. And then I see the old crone smiling at me from across the room, a glint in her eye as her son stoops to kiss her cheek, or her grandson runs shrieking into her arms as she bestows affection upon him I know to be disingenuous. Butter would not melt in her mouth._

_And I am reminded that even christened as a reborn Andrastian, even when I have professed to have given up my ‘heathen ways’, even when I let them loose my braids and press the hot irons to my hair to make it ‘manageable’…even_ **_then_ ** _, I am still but Rivain trash to them._

_And Edward says nothing to defend me, offers no comfort._

_I wish…on those days…that I had never condemned my sister to death._

 

 

Hadiza stared at the last line, unsure if she’d read correctly. She curled on the divan in one of the small parlors, wide eyed, her mother’s heavy journal in her lap. She kept reading, and she swore she could make out tear stains on the pages. No, it had to be some trick of the light. She had never seen her mother undone with grief. Noble tears, she used to say, dignified tears befitting a lady.

Maker, had it all been conditioning of her grandmother that had convinced her of this?

She turned the page.

 

 

_I met his friend tonight. A templar named Frederick McDougall. Knight-Commander Frederick of the Ostwick Circle. It was my Name Day, and the weather was cold and rainy. But I did not care, nor did I listen to the sickened coughing and cursing of Edward’s mother, who lay infirm in her chambers most days, braziers lighting every corner of the room to keep her warm._

_Tonight was mine._

_Frederick is what most would call a severe-looking man._

 

Hadiza laughed at this point, a stifled giggle as she imagined her mother’s face describing the knight-commander. It was true. Hadiza remembered describing him the same way as a child.

 

_His eyes are as hard as diamonds, and I swear the Maker Himself must have sculpted him from stone, and etched that stoic expression there, which could not be changed by anything. When I went to meet him and Edward introduced us, I did not know._

_Maker, I did not know. I had mercifully forgotten the electric thrill of touch could do to me. I had forgotten what it felt like for strong fingers to clasp my hand, to lift it to a man’s mouth and feel his cool lips against my skin._

_Ah._ **_Ah._ **

****_And just like that, we broke contact and the feeling faded, like warmth fleeing in the face of a chill. I followed him, citing to escort him outside that he could find transport back to the Circle. In truth, I wanted away from Edward, who drank more and talked less. I kept the contact between myself and Frederick sparse. I had a bruise still healing._

_He was reticent, but I made attempts at idle conversation, desperate to recapture the headiness our single clasp of hands had left me with. Instead, he seemed in a hurry to return to his duties, and I watched the Trevelyan coach rumble off, back toward the city._

_It would be some weeks before I saw him again, and many weeks before I finally saw the crack in that stoic facade._

 

 

Hadiza gulped. She knew where this led, and so she mercifully skipped a few pages to find something of interest. She skimmed, fingertips moving slowly over the words, picking up snatches of memory, hearing her mother’s voice, sarcastic, scathing, affectionate, thoughtful. In these pages, her mother was as alive as ever, and Hadiza could almost see her, standing in the doorway, smiling at her, wondering what had her daughter so giddy, curled on that old divan with a book.

And knowing how her mother anguished in these pages, she understood a little of what she saw years ago in her father’s study. She understood it more intimately than she had a right to.

 

_Frederick speaks differently in private. We walk the gardens, with him keeping a respectful distance. At first, he is reluctant, trying so hard to look at anything but me, but in the middle of the pavilion, obscured by a rose bush, I take his face in my hands and kiss his mouth, feeling it firm and full beneath my own. His entire face goes red and I laugh, telling him that there is no need to fear me. I am no Rivaini witch, here to give him to the spirits of the Fade._

_I believe, after that, we were lost._

_We wrote often, harmless letters at first. He would tell me of his work with the mages in the Circle, and I would tell him of Edward’s constant grabs for power in the Council of Twelve. Because he married me, his position in the Council was weaker, but I didn’t care. I had a home and the security of nobility, a life that I thought never to have again when…never mind._

_Our letters became more intimate over the months. He would ask me to come to the city, and I would decline, too afraid that the old crone’s spies would report back to her and she would tell Edward how faithless I was. In truth, I think I no longer cared. I was pregnant, and she could no longer touch me. Edward, for all his failings, doted on me during that time, rubbed my belly with the fragrant oils and creams, whispering and certain that it was a son._

_But as much as having a son would secure my place in the household, I knew in my heart I wanted a daughter. I knew the life growing in my belly was a girl. She would be beautiful, and I would raise her and protect her, teach her the mother tongue of my people, teach her of the old ways._

_The ways I had forsaken for love that barely existed, now._

_I grew round in those days, and I wrote frequently to Frederick, being confined to bed rest. He sent me small gifts, herbs and other helpful items that he’d requested of the mages under his care. No one questioned why or for whom he needed herbs specifically mixed for pregnancy, for Frederick never married. But who would gainsay the knight-commander?_

_He visited, under the guise of wishing to congratulate Edward, but I knew his wish was to see me. Edward allowed it, if only to brag about how progressive he was, spitting in the faces of the Twelve, who urged him to seek a wife of fairer skin, or sire a bastard on some whore in the city at least and claim it for himself._

_Anything to stamp out the shame that was marrying me, a Rivaini woman._

_My noble bloodline was older than Ostwick, older than all of these men who looked down their noses at me, and yet…and yet I could aspire to no higher than the infatuation and bauble on the arm of a man I no longer recognized._

_But Frederick looked at me as if I were a star fallen to earth. He watched me in silence, and I watched him, smiling._

_Later, he would tell me in his letters that he had never seen me look so beautiful as I did with child. I felt the yearning in it, yearning that he wish it was his._

_But months passed and soon I gave birth. I labored for hours, my thoughts scattered, but I horrified myself in the fleeting hope that my child was born with the right skin color. I knew she wouldn’t be, and I vowed to love her all the same._

_And when they placed her in my arms, the name came to me unbidden. I did not even need to think._

_“Hadiza…” I breathed, looking down at the tiny, wrinkled face of my daughter, whose mouth went wide and round, working, eager for my breast._

_I would love her with all that I was._

 

 

Hadiza bit her lip on an unexpected sob of grief, setting the journal aside. She drew her knees up to her chest, bowing her head, trembling as the grief that ad never been allowed an outlet finally came. She mourned her mother, mourned her as if she had passed only yesterday, as if she had not been dead over a decade past.

Aja found her this way, coming to fetch Hadiza for the evening meal.

“Diza…” She whispered from the doorway, “We’re all getting ready to…”

Hadiza looked up, her face wet with tears, her grief plain and naked on her face. Aja immediately came to her, joining her on the divan. Wordlessly, without asking, she put her arms around her sister and held her close. Hadiza wept hard, regret, guilt, and the emptiness of loss hollowing her out. Her grieving was an ocean, sucking at the shores of her mind endlessly, under she was cleansed of it. Her mother had loved her before she was ever born, had vowed to love her even when her own family did not, and Hadiza remembered that horrible night when she’d practically spat in her mother’s face.

Aja pressed a firm but compassionate kiss on her sister’s crown, saying nothing, wordless cajoling as she allowed her sister to empty herself of her pain.

Maker, it was hard!

Hadiza quieted, unsure of what to do. She wanted to call for her mother, wanted to see her one last time and say how sorry she was for having been so foolish. She wanted so badly to reverse time to that night, to have never given up her mother’s secret.

But there would never be a chance to reconcile, and the warm ghost that she’d felt as she read earlier, was no longer there.

Even the demon was silent, but the weight of its offer was there, a promise Hadiza wasn’t sure it could keep.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, hm?” Aja said softly, “Father’s finished drawing up the guest list for that damnable party he’s throwing. His little wife has been glaring at me all day. I think she realizes that despite her being the right skin color, she is still just a minor noble.”

“I don’t care about any of that,” Hadiza whispered, “I just…let’s just go eat. I’m hungry.” She wiped her face on her sleeve as they stood. Marking her place in her mother’s journal, she carried it under her arm as Aja walked with her.

She caught Samson in the hallway, who took one look at her puffy face and shot a questioning look at Aja, who shook her head. He seemed ready to fire questions her way, but he knew Hadiza would tell him when she was ready.

Cleaning up was easy. Hadiza washed her faceand smoothed back her hair to bind it loosely at her nape. She stared at her reflection in silence, seeing the echoes of her mother within it. The tilt of her eyes, yes, those were her mother’s; the delicate natural arch of her brows, yes; the fullness of her mouth also. Her nose was her father’s, but every where Hadiza saw her mother’s influence. There, the starlight of her eyes, set in her dark face. Had her mother not dazzled Ostwick nobility with that dichotomy? And they had treated her unfairly all the same.

 _As much as I love your vanity,_ the demon’s voice rose and expanded, felt in all parts of her body, _you spend a great deal of time wallowing in the past._

“Shut up.” Hadiza whispered aloud. Her reflection did not respond, blinking with seven eyes, and lifting its chin, horns spiraling up from its head. Her reflection leaned forward, as if the mirror were merely a window and not a reflective surface.

 _“I will be upon you sooner than you think, Inquisitor.”_ It laughed, a sound that felt the way nails scraping against slate must have sounded, and Hadiza was rooted to the spot in fear, unsure if what she was seeing was real. She took deep breaths, trying to calm her mind, and when her reflection remained unchanged, she blinked rapidly, splashing her face again with cold water. When she looked up, there was no demon’s reflection gazing back.

She breathed a sigh of relief, hands trembling.

* * *

Dinner was awkwardly quiet at first, but as the wine flowed, tongues loosened.

“So,” Edward said, watching the Inquisition pick at their food, “as I’m sure you already know, you will be reintroduced to Ostwick society as both my daughter and the Inquisitor.”

Hadiza blinked, looking up. “Yes. You seek to bolster your position in the Council using my name.” She stated dully.

Edward laughed. “Indeed. Simple politics, my dear. But once they see that you are unattached…”

“Except that I’m not.” Hadiza said firmly, ignoring Vivienne’s disapproving look. Edward glanced around the table, still smiling. He met Samson’s gaze, who glared back.

“Yes, well, when your illness is cleared up and your little interlude concluded, I’m sure you’ll see reason.”

Hadiza thought to get up and leave the table, but remembering her mother’s words, she stayed, controlling her breathing. Edward watched her, smiling in triumph as she visibly relaxed.

“Very well, then.” She said brightly. “You may have your little party, show me off like a bauble, much like you did my mother, but only after I have returned from Rivain.”

There was a collective stutter in the rhythm of the meal as her companions looked at her in shock.

“What?” Edward’s voice went flat with incredulity. “What are you saying?”

Hadiza finished her meal, pushing away from the table, shirking decorum.

“Do not ask me to repeat myself, father, like some pleading beggar. You need my help? Then you wait your fucking turn like _everyone else_.” Hadiza didn’t bother to see his reaction, did not give him the satisfaction of letting him know she hoped he suffered, and instead, excused herself, citing needing fresh air. Vivienne gave a subtle look to Samson, the only warning she’d give him, but he missed it and got up anyway, going after her.

“Well!” Dorian said with a laugh, “That was rather exciting! Why are we going to Rivain, again?”

“Likely because that’s where the answers have been all along,” Feynriel supplied, “…this chicken is very good. Have you all tried it?”

Vivienne wanted to groan in exasperation but opted to take a deeper pull from her wine goblet instead.

* * *

He found her in the stables, saddling up Nyx.

“Rivain, Hadiza?” He asked without preamble, “When were you planning on telling the rest of us?”

Hadiza didn’t answer, leaning down to tighten the girth belt and adjust the stirrups to her height.

“He forced my hand, Samson, what else was I to do? Let him pawn me off on the very people who find us contemptuous?” She turns to face him briefly, the reins in her gloved hand. “I will not allow myself to be used unless it’s on my terms.”

Samson sighed. “You’re the Inquisitor, Hadiza.”

“I know that!” She hissed.

“No, I don’t think you do!” Samson said back. “You have an organization to lead. You are the Inquisitor, and as such, you must consider your responsibilities and duties of greater importance than…than this.”

Them.

Hadiza took a deep breath, nostrils flaring as she exhaled. “My responsibilities and duties do not encompass the gamut of being used as a bargaining chip for my father’s personal politics. I am not…I am not a _thing_.”

“No,” Samson said, laughing, “you aren’t. Maker, the way he looked at me when he said that. He means to marry you off, doesn’t he?”

Hadiza said nothing, looking away. Samson laughed again, frustration and hysteria grinding against one another. He turned, trying to focus on anything, trying to center himself.

“I’m going for a night ride,” Hadiza told him, “will you join me?”

Samson smiled and shook his head. “I need you to clear your head, princess. And when you come back, I’ll be waiting.” 

Under the twin moons, Hadiza took Nyx through the countryside surrounding the Trevelyan demesne. She had once roamed these same woods and hills as a child, fearless and proud. But they no longer held the same wonder they had when she was a girl. Instead, there was only an empty silence, as if not even memory dwelled amidst the winter-stripped trees. Nyx panted and stomped, breath fogging in the dim starlight and milky moonlight.

“You know,” Hadiza said, and her mount pricked his ears in alertness, “I wish I wasn’t the Inquisitor. That the mages hadn’t rebelled." The Circle was cloistered, safe, protected from outside influence. In some ways she missed it terribly. The long hours of study, the predictability of it, a time before the world was given over to madness and uncertainty.

She thought on Corypheus’ words, about how he had promised to bring certainty to a world where there was none.

“Well you were right about one thing,” she mused to herself, “but I saw what your promise yielded. You had to go.” She shifted in the saddle, huddling into her cloak against the cold. The knowledge the demon promised was tempting, but she had no need of it, not truly. And the asking price was too high. But it spoke to her with a certainty that she wold eventually say ‘yes.’ As if her answer were preordained, and her sacrifice to darkness inevitable.

The ride continued until she circled back to the manor, which was quiet by the time she arrived. True to his word, Samson was waiting, standing near one of the guardsmen, whom he spoke to amicably. The guard seemed relaxed around him, fascinated and nervous at being so, and Hadiza rode up, smiling.

“Ah, there she is,” Samson said, “told you she’d be out late. I take it you had a nice ride?”

Hadiza nodded, offering her hand. He took it and helped her down.

“Your Worship.” The guard said reverently, bowing deeply.

“Please don’t!” Hadiza laughed. “Not at this hour. I’m just…I’m just me.”

“You’re…” the guard was so young! “You’re the Inquisitor…”

Hadiza sighed, ignoring Samson’s pointed look as she tossed the reins to him, which he caught deftly in one hand. She flexed her fingers, wiggling them to keep them warm.

“Can you have a coach brought round? I think I may take—“

Samson shook his head. “Not tonight, princess. Tonight, you gotta do some thinking.” He glanced toward the darkness beyond the front gates. “And so do I.”

Hadiza felt something well up in her. A foreign thing that was cold and serpentine, and it took up all the space in her lungs, and made her stomach feel too small to hold its contents.

“I…” She felt words come to mind, but they were out of order, a jumble of indecipherable confusion which she attempted to convey with eyes alone. Samson looked pained at the expression, then brushed an errant lock of hair behind her ear.

“You just announced that we’re headed to Rivain soon. And if that’s the case, you need to be able to pick apart your mother’s notes without any distractions.”

“My lady…?” The guard said and Hadiza waved him away, and he took off, relieved to be free of intruding on such a private moment. Hadiza, for her part, stared at Samson, incredulous.

“You’re not a distraction! And I need you with me in case…in case it comes back.”

“Feynriel can help with that better than I, princess. He’s the one who can manipulate dreams.” Hadiza stared at him, quiet, wondering. Samson’s gaze was steady, his expression serious. It was strange, then, to realize what he was doing, to watch him do it with a straight face, and for her to simply accept it.

“I’ll…” She took a breath to find her voice, “…I’ll let you know when we depart for Rivain.”

Samson didn’t smile, but there was something that passed through his eyes that she recognized.

“Aye, Inquisitor. Send word when you’re ready.”

Hadiza watched him adjust the stirrups, swinging into the saddle, and ride off toward the gate. She stood there for some time, sick with dread. And then the anger came, the brutality of it like magma breaking through, moving with purpose through her veins until her skin was hot and her eyes blazed.

She stalked inside the house, ignoring the guards, the servants, her sister. She went to the private solar of the Bann and his wife, and threw open the doors of his bedchamber. Yvainne leapt in fear, clutching her chest as Edward adjusted his eyes to the sudden light Hadiza brought into the room.

“What did you say to him?” Hadiza demanded, her voice raw with unchecked power. The pride demon roused in her, roused and opened its jaws to let loose a soundless roar that shook her to the marrow. The promise hovered just beyond reach.

_All you have to do is say yes._

Hadiza ignored it. “Samson. What did you say to Samson?”

Edward coughed, but it became a laugh. “My dear this is hardly appropriate.”

Hadiza’s eyes glittered dangerously. “Maker damn appropriate. I have a maelstrom within me that will strip the skin from your bones do I but let it out. Answer my question, father, and patricide will not be added to the list of things I already must answer for.”

Bann Trevelyan’s eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t.”

Hadiza said nothing, and the demon smiled from within her, one word away from wearing her skin. Seven eyes glittered in the darkness beyond her perception, and a fanged mouth opened wide in a macabre grin of delight.

“If you must know,” Edward said with a sigh of exasperation that masked his very real fear, “I told him the truth. That he will never have you, not in the way that was proper. He may rut with you like some gauche beast all he pleases, may enjoy the sinful relish that comes from his worthless self being able to lie with the Inquisitor, and a lady of nobility, but in the end, he will be cast back down into the darkness where he belongs. I told him to give up this foolish romance before he hurts your reputation further, and before you get hurt in the process.”

Hadiza felt her anger flare brightly, like a single match strike to oil, and then it was sucked from her, leaving only sorrow.

“How dare you.” She whispered, “You have no right—“

“I have every right!” Edward shouted, startling her. “I have every right! As your father and the head of this House! You are the Inquisitor, but your duty to family is non-negotiable. I will not see my daughter being pawed at like some common street whore by a lowly war criminal! He should be dead! Rotting in some nameless hole in the field of battle! Yet you dare to insult me, bringing him under my roof, parading about as if he were anything but the scum that slimes the earth.”

Hadiza’s lips trembled, eyes wide.

“This charade ends tonight, Hadiza, and when you return from your little adventure in Rivain, you will find a husband. One of noble birth, and one of my choosing. And that nameless no-account criminal and commoner had better not be on your arm when you do, or so help me, _I’ll_ rip his heart out.”

Hadiza felt stripped of her confidence with those words. All this time, she had thought she needed Samson to protect her from her father, that she needed to be away from this place. She had never given thought to the damage he might have done to Samson himself had she left him alone to pour poison in his ear.

“You should thank Madame de Fer,” Edward said, calmer this time, “she’s the only one in your little group with any sense for politics and duty. She agreed with me.”

“She wouldn’t.” Hadiza whispered.

“But she did.” Edward countered, on the verge of crowing with cruel malicious victory. “Your duty to the Inquisition and to family must come first. Your reputation—and by extent, mine—suffers while you continue to entertain that stupid fantasy of the hero and villain walking arm and arm into the sunset. You neglect the populace’s rightful outrage at your relationship with him. I have heard the rumors of what the two of you get up to, and just know: before you are wed, you will be re-indoctrinated as a proper child of the Maker, anointed and blessed and pure, as the Herald of Andraste should be. I could not completely cure your mother of her heathen appetites, and perhaps her sin was passed to you. But I will not lose another of my family to such foolish romances.”

“She left you because she didn’t love you!” Hadiza shouted, the tears in her voice manifesting in her eyes.

“She left me because she was a faithless whore!” Edward countered, “And when she died, it was his name she said, not mine! I will not let her spawn betray me in the same manner.”

Hadiza backed out of the room.

“When I return from Rivain,” she whispered, “pray that I have found the peace and strength of will not to kill you.”

Edward smiled. “Your empty threats are ineffectual and weak, Hadiza. Conduct your business as you will. When you return, be ready to become a Lady of House Trevelyan once more, and do so with alacrity.”

Hadiza turned and left, and for once, Edward felt the victor watching her go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well guys. This marks the end of Arc III. Off to Rivain.


	23. BOOK IV: Boundaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Hadiza and her friends make their way to Rivain, she does some light reading, and discovers a horrifying secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the rest of y'all, enjoy or whatever.

_I remember when Edward’s mother first came to see Hadiza, and it was the last time she deigned to look upon her._

_After Hadiza was born, I was very ill, and so I spent little time with her. The physician said that I could not nurse her, citing my sickness would pass to her, and so everyday a nurse massaged my milk-swollen breasts to empty them. When I got well, I was permitted to nurse her again, and I was glad for it. She slumbered at my breast, my nipple still in her mouth, possessive as always. I would sing to her when she slept, softly so as not to wake her. I would take her little fist between my thumb and forefinger and wave it gently to the rhythm as I sang her the songs of home._

_“Where is she?” It was his mother, arguing with the servants and nurse to come and see me. I heard her, and held Hadiza tighter to me. His mother hobbled in on a cane, her face wrinkled and sour._

_“Well,” she snapped, “let’s see her. Did she come out right or no?”_

_I glared up at her from my bed, not deigning to give her the satisfaction of taking my daughter from me. She huffed, reaching over to snatch back the blanket and peer at Hadiza._

_“Good hair, at least,” she sneered, “but skin the color of horse dung. It will not do. It. Will. Not. Do. You must have another child. Only then will I know.” She thumped her cane on the floor as if to pass a verdict upon me. I frowned, adjusting the blanket to hide Hadiza from her view._

_“Know what?” I asked as she hobbled back toward the door. Without looking back she tossed her verbal dagger at me, aiming for my heart._

_“If Edward should cast you off and seek another wife, of course.”_

_I felt cold dread in my belly, and was glad she was gone. I did not need to see her face to know that her smile was cruel, and her heart blacker than my daughter’s beautiful skin._

* * *

**_25 Justinian_ **

_Aja was being christened by the Chantry when Frederick told me he loved me._

_As a the highest ranking knight in the Order’s foothold in Ostwick, Frederick was mostly required to attend. And so he did, and he watched as they named my daughter, anointed her with the sacred oil, and said the rites that would see her soul saved and blessed as a child of the Maker._

_I named her Hajara, but she has always been my little Aja._

_Frederick came to me himself, peering down at my infant daughter with raised brows. He is not a playful man, but his job requires him to be good with children, and so I watched in wonder as he wiggled his finger at my tiny infant, and made a silly face I did not recognize. I asked him about it later and he denied it of course, but I saw the ghost of a smile tugging the corner of his mouth as he did._

_As I passed my daughter to the nurse, I went outside, wanting fresh air. Frederick deigned to escort me himself, and Edward told him not to keep me long for there was still much to be celebrated. He threw this part for show, I knew, for Aja had also been born the wrong color, confirming my uselessness as a wife in all respects. No sons, and my daughters were too dark to be biddable for marriage._

_But we still went through the motions, and the pain in my heart had dulled to a distant ache beneath thick, oily scar tissue._

_Frederick walked with my arm linked in his, his armor gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. For a long while, neither of us spoke. It was enough to simply be in one another’s presence. It was enough for me to know that no matter what, he would be a constant presence in my life, keeping his own vigil for my sake._

_We did not speak of the bruises, of my mysterious and numerous accidents, or of Edward’s increase in drinking after Aja’s birth. Instead, Frederick and I stopped in the garden maze, surrounded by high hedges, the roses still in full bloom and fragrant._

_“Evangeline,” he whispered, and somehow the name did not feel so wrong when he said it, “I…I want you to know that no matter what happens, I…” He laughed at himself, pulling away from me to pace, armor creaking and gravel crunching beneath his boots. I watched him quietly, waiting and wondering._

_“I have never…my entire life has been my duty to the Maker and to the Circle. I have served faithfully for over twenty years, and my Circle is one of the least problematic. I thank the Maker everyday for such mercies. I had never thought of…of other things. But then I met you that night and you looked…you looked like home, Evangeline. I thought I saw the kiss of the Maker upon your brow.”_

_I laughed. “You don’t think I’m some Rivaini heathen witch? Come to corrupt Ostwick’s favored sons and enslave their daughters?”_

_Frederick’s eyes went wide and I think he may have even blanched. “Maker, Eva! Do not say such vile things. You know I have never believed a word of such nonsense. You are who you are.”_

_“And who is that, Knight-Commander?” I asked, “Who am I? Do you even know my real name?”_

_Frederick stared, his expression caught between hard and soft._

_“You were Evangeline Trevelyan the night we met,” he said softly, “you were the woman who braved the cold, rainy Ostwick night to see me safely to a coach and back to my home. You are still Evangeline Trevelyan, wife of Bann Edward Trevelyan, and the woman I have come to love as much as a man so devoted to his work could love a woman so holy in appearance and mannerism.”_

_I was drained of answers. Empty of excuses as to why I could not want this…why I could not allow myself to need this. Why would he tell me this, now of all times? Where was he when I was new to Ostwick and not yet bound to Edward? Now, he would come to me, when I was starved for affection and love, with only my children for comfort; starved and aching for the reverent touch of a lover who_ **_loved_ ** _, and not one who only saw the children I could bear, or saw me as an amusement they no longer had use for. He would dare come to me now, when my fate was so bound up in politics and intrigue, my fate bound to a man who no longer truly loved me, and when every move I made was carefully calculated so as not to reflect poorly on the Trevelyan name._

_I wanted so badly for time to reverse, for the hourglass to turn over, to give me a second chance._

_Because I was in love with him too. This man of few words, and strong action. Who was dutiful and honest, but made no noise of either. And I wanted to fling my arms around him and sob with relief, because Frederick was the man I should have loved._

_Instead, I pressed my fingertips to my lips, and then reached forward, closing the distance between us, and pressed my fingertips to his mouth._

_Wordless confessions were all I could give him, now, but he knew me. He knew me as surely as anyone could, and he shut his eyes slowly, in reverence, acceptance, and longing. I felt the barest pressure on my fingertips against his mouth, a sort of resistance that yielded, and I gently closed my fingers into a fist, and brought it to my heart._

_It was enough._

* * *

Hadiza sighed, smiling to herself. Since her night ride, she had spoken to neither Vivienne nor Samson. The former out of anger, and the latter because he had once more shut her out. Hadiza felt pain lance her heart with every day that passed as they traveled, making their way on horseback and by wagon to Antiva. They camped sparingly, rationing out their provisions despite having enough for the journey, and they kept to the main roads. On Vivienne’s insistence, they occasionally boarded at an inn in the small towns they passed by, if only to break up the hard-lived monotony of camping beneath the stars.

Spring came, and the further north they traveled, the warmer the weather became. They shed their fur-lined cloaks, packed them away in favor of lighter wear.

When they reach Ansburg, they were relieved. Supplies were low, and after a particular bad week spent rubbing unguents into their skin to beat back the rising number of mosquitos, they were glad to be in another major city. Samson wondered, with his reputation, just what sort of welcome they would receive.

“We going to walk to Rivain, sister?” Aja asked as they put up in an inn that evening. Hadiza shook her head.

“No. We’d lose weeks trying to skirt the coast like that.” She replied as they all bent over the map of the Marches she spread out on the table in her room. “I propose we go to Antiva City, catch a boat to Afsaana.”

“I’m begging your pardon,” Feynriel said, scratching at the flaking skin on his neck, “but why not Dairsmuid? Or Llomerrynn?”

“You don’t want to go to Llomerrynn, kid.” Aja said with a dry chuckle. Dorian smirked.

“Speaking from experience?” He mused and she fixed him with a stare, making him grin wider.

“Llomerrynn is a lawless place. Only raiders and pirates go there. Hadiza, we have to go to the capital. Someone there is bound to know where House Fayé is located. Or did mother’s little diary not have answers for you?” Aja rubbed the back of her neck irritably, shooting a glare at Hadiza for good measure. Hadiza frowned back.

“Not now, Aja…” She muttered.

“Then when? Mother leaves you an entire suit of armor, a new weapon, _and_ her journal? And I’m left with…with what? Nothing?”

Hadiza’s jaw tightened as she steeled her will. “It’s obvious she had some plan for me. And since the things were magically sealed, it must have to do with my being a mage.”

Aja sneered. “Of course it does. Always comes back to your damnable magic. For such a devout Andrastian she sure didn’t—“

“That’s enough, Trevelyan.” Samson snapped, and Aja’s gaze snapped to him. “We don’t have time for your petty childhood bullshit. Look at her.”

They all looked, Aja included. Hadiza hesitated, suddenly uncomfortable beneath such scrutiny. The red veins had spread up her arm to her shoulder, and were getting closer to her neck. She unconsciously tugging her collar closer to hide them.

“She’s fighting with everything she has every minute of the day.” Samson said, never breaking his gaze from hers, “If our answers are in Rivain, then maybe you should fucking shut up and let her follow the only clues left to her.”

Aja was silent, while Hadiza flushed beneath her skin, suddenly unnerved.

“If…” She began tracing her fingertips on the map, “If we go to Antiva City, we catch a boat to Dairsmuid. From there I guess we simply ask around. House Fayé is a noble house, I’m sure someone knows where they are located.”

Vivienne narrowed her eyes at the map. “And what if they offer no answers?” She asked quietly, giving voice to the question all assembled avoided. Hadiza tried to will the tremble from her hands.

“I…I have a contingency for that, Vivienne, not to worry. Plans have been made.” Hadiza swallowed hard, “For now, we operate on the hope that they can pull this demon out of me before it’s too late.”

“And if you become an abomination we simply…what? Kill you?” Aja asked, “Cut off the head of the Inquisition?”

Hadiza met her sister’s gaze, smiling grimly. “That’s generally how it works, I’m told. But the demon can’t have me unless I say yes. But Rivaini seers become possessed all the time and cleanse themselves of the spirit riding them. I am sure they must know a way to extricate the demon from me safely.”

“It’s true,” Dorian said, “that was the main reason the Seekers had the Dairsmuid Circle annulled, after all. Mages learning how to be possessed, mages allowed to live amongst their families. Nasty business, that annulment.”

Hadiza flinched. “Yes. Yes it was. But there may still be mages in the city proper who know where I can find House Fayé…until then, we keep moving. Any questions?”

Feynriel raised his hand timidly and she smiled at him. “Yes?”

“In the interest of safety, would you be terribly oppose to me monitoring your dreams while we travel? On a deeper level? I think I might have an idea.”

Hadiza put a finger to her lips. “Don’t tell me or he will know too.”

“He?” Samson parroted with a laugh. “They have genders?”

“Well, he chose that one so…”

“You’ve been _talking_ to it?!”

Hadiza glared at Samson, tired and agitated and frustrated that this was the first lengthy conversation either of them had had with one another in weeks.

“Yes, Samson, I talk to it,” she said snidely, “it’s not as if he leaves me with much choice. It’s only us up here.” She tapped her temple.

“Were you talking to it when we—“

“That’s enough.” Vivienne said firmly and Samson fell quiet, but his eyes were blazing. Hadiza felt a twisted sense of relief that their conversation wasn’t done. At least she could finally speak with him in private and see what had gotten into him.

“You can monitor me tonight, Feynriel. Sleep isn’t as restful or common for me lately, but I’m sure we’ll manage.” Hadiza smiled, but her heart wasn’t in it. Feynriel inclined his head.

“If there aren’t anymore questions,” Hadiza glanced around the table, and silence answered back. “Alright then we’re done here. You’re…dismissed, I guess.”

They filed out of the room, and Samson hesitated at the door, caught between choices.

“You don’t have to force yourself to stay,” Hadiza said tiredly as she sank into a chair, “I know…I know what you’re trying to do and I won’t get in your way of doing it.”

Samson winced, shutting his eyes, keeping his back to her. Hadiza waited, holding her breath, afraid to scare him away.

He left the room wordlessly, unable to hear how her heart shattered to pieces in his wake. Alone in her room, Hadiza was left with nothing else to do but read. So, damming up her tears, she took up her mother’s journal, and opened to another entry, closer to the back of the journal.

 

 

**_13 Wintermarch 9:20 Dragon_ **

_Hadiza._

_Ah, my darling girl. You came into your powers so young, and when you cried out to me, to help you, to save you from the fate of all mages, I could do nothing. I was powerless to protect you. I could not even teach you, for you see, I am not a mage. For all the potency of my family’s magical bloodline, I was one of the scions that had no luck with it._

_This is now is my confession._

_I hope, that when my time comes, I will find peace and forgiveness with the Maker, or whatever deity sees fit to reap me from this world. I hope, when you finally read this, that you will find it in your heart to forgive me. I make no excuses for what I did, nor will I attempt to justify it. There are no excuses or justifications for the atrocity and betrayal I committed. I pray Aja is a better sister to you than I was to my younger sister._  

_House Fayé has been around since our forebears first crossed the great ocean from the north to settle in what we now call Rivain. We are one of the oldest families, and the strongest. Since our House’s inception we have been known to have mages who populate Rivain’s ranks, with powerful battlemages, healers, dreamers, and seers. Only the women can become seers, and only a seeress can rule as matriarch of the House. This honor is bestowed upon the daughters of House Fayé when they come into their powers, and when we go through the Rites of Passage that indoctrinate us into seerhood._

_I know this is a lot to take in, but you were always a clever girl. I trust you, Hadiza._

_I was slated to become the next matriarch, and my younger sister would succeed after me. But while her power bloomed, like coming into adolescence, I remained helplessly mortal. I did not dream of the Fade as she did, did not converse with spirits because I could neither see nor hear them as she did. She wove fire from her fingertips, and no matter how hard I tried, I could not do it._

_Our mother said that perhaps I would bloom late, which is not uncommon. Many mages have discovered their magic late after all. So they waited and watched, and seasons came and went. By the time I was an adolescent, nearing my womanhood, they knew._

_I would never be a mage, and I could never be a seer as a result._

_It was a devastating blow to my House, as I was the eldest daughter. The ceremonial armor I left you was to be mine, but the spells woven into the metal and fabric would kill anyone not a mage and not of my line. I would receive none of the honors and reverence afforded a seer. Instead, I was shuffled and pressured into becoming a regular warrior. I toiled and trained alongside ordinary men and women, forced to watch with envy as the battlemages trained amongst themselves, executing tightly-controlled maneuvers, wedding magic, dance, and acrobatics into a seamless routine that would ascertain them victory._

_I was sick with envy when my sister took her first steps to seerhood, and she was cloistered from me amidst the older retired seers and mages, to learn amongst them the secret ways of the Third Sight. I toiled in training yards, mastering various weaponry alongside the other warriors. I hunted, I fought, I earned my marks._

_Hadiza, I was sick with envy, and you must understand…envy is poison._

_I had wanted nothing more than to be a mage, to twist the Veil and draw the raw Fade into myself. I watched my sister cast cantrips and large spells and I became bitter. I had always loved my sister, but my envy drove me to madness. Were I a mage, I would have been lost to a demon by then._

_When talks began speaking of how she would one day become a seer and House Fayé’s matriarch, I could not bear it. So, in my bitterness and envy, I devised a plan to disrupt her path._

_I invited her with me on a one-week trip to Dairsmuid to celebrate her upcoming Rite of Passage, and of course she agreed. So we set off, promising to be back within the following week._

_My heart pounded the entire way. Every time we made camp, I thought I would find the entire household on our heels, aware of what I planned to do, and when they were not, we pressed on. Dairsmuid is a beautiful city, with architecture dating back to the time of the Imperium. It has wide avenues and during festival season, it seems as if one cannot breathe without the fragrance of flowers in their lungs. Petals fall from the sky like rain, and the entire city smells of orange blossom for weeks afterward. My sister had never been to Dairsmuid during festival season but I had._

_And so when we arrived I allowed her the pleasure of exploring. She had never seen the Funari before, or the elves, and she marveled at this strange mixture of races, all speaking in a polyglot tongue that was at once familiar and not. While she shopped in the Grand Bazaar, I set out on a mission of perfidy._

_Maker…someone…forgive me._

_I went to the templars and I told them that I’d spotted a mage in the Bazaar. They asked me to take me to them and I led them to my sister. Led them to her and stood aside as they questioned her. She had never needed to hide her magic before in her life, and I had given her a weak warning to keep her magic to a minimum in the capital. She panicked, throwing a barrier around herself._

_It was enough to convince them. They nullified her magic and took her to the Circle._

_Neither one of them thanked me._

_I stood in the Grand Bazaar, watching and listening to her scream and beseech me to help her, to tell the family that a grievous wrong had been done. Even when I had betrayed her, she still thought it a harmless mistake, and still begged me to help her. One of the templars brought down a gauntleted fist to the back of her head, knocking her unconscious._

_Alone and bereft of my sister, I went back to Zazzau, the town where our family held sway._

_When I arrived without her, I think in her heart, our mother knew what I had done, but she said nothing. She gave me a chance to explain, and I did, guilt and anger and fear forcing the word from me in a torrent._

_In House Fayé, to betray a family member in such a way is high treason. But my parents would not see their only other daughter put to the sword. My brother, Assane, a battlemage in his own right, cursed me, spat in my face, said I was unworthy to bear the Fayé name. And he was right. What I had done could not be undone._

_And so they stripped me of my title and status, and with magic, removed my Tawada Jiki, leaving me bare. A warrior with no Tawada is a warrior with no skills or purpose._

_They gave me until nightfall to leave Zazzau._

_I stole the sacred armor that would have been mine, that had been tailored for me, and I escaped, wounding Assane as he attempted to stop me. I rode hard for the south, and did not stop until Rivain was behind me._

_I do not know what became of my sister when she went to the Circle, or if she even survived. But I know now my name has been declared anathema in House Fayé, never to be spoken again. It would be as if I had never existed.But I had disrupted the line of succession, and that was in some ways an even worse crime._

_Hadiza, it is too late to redeem me, but as a born innocent in their eyes, you can claim the birthright lost to me, and my beloved sister. My name is anathema, but you can invoke the Right of Inheritance, as the blood of House Fayé is stamped clear upon your face. You have the magic, you have the potential. Do you invoke the Right, they will be honor-bound to aid you and accept you into the fold._

_Please, Hadiza. Do this. Mend the chain, bridge the gap, and balance out the evil that I committed with some good. I know you can._

 

_Love always,_

_Evangeline_

* * *

Hadiza sat in stunned silence, the journal falling from nerveless hands as she digested and internalized what she had just read. Dairsmuid had occurred in 9:40 Dragon. Hadiza thought back to what she was doing at that time. She had been in the Circle…and her mother’s sister had likely been at Dairsmuid.

“Maker…” She whispered, the weight of what happened bearing down on her all at once. “ _Maker_.”

The next morning, she informed her friends that they would go directly to Dairsmuid. When asked why, she did not answer.

She did not trust to hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we're finally at the story arc I actually give a shit about. I've been itching for this arc for months. If you're racist and you know it clap your hands! Alright, if you clapped you might want to leave now because it's about to hit peak Blackness and Black Excellence and I know how the DA fandom loves to be racist as shit, so I'm just giving you fair warning, now. Samson is probably going to be the only white dude in the narrative for a while. Leave your thoughts, wishes, and criticism in the comments.


	24. Foresight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hadiza and the gang finally make it to Rivain. Things escalate. One of the OCs from my original work makes a cameo appearance because I like to do crossovers.

The fault line between Hadiza and Samson remained, and at first, it was easy to assume they were having a mere lovers’ spat. Samson still performed his duties, Hadiza still led her team toward Antiva City, passing through its dry, lowland country. Evidence of the Fourth Blight still saw some of the ground soured. Nothing grew save tough, scraggly grass. But the closer they came to the capital, the more lush the country grew. The boat ride from Antiva to Rivain was uneventful, a fact for which all were grateful given their last sea voyage.

They were a day’s ride from Dairsmuid when Hadiza’s hand began to crackle and spark, glowing an angry and sick green.

“No.” Aja said, “All the way out here? I thought we got them all!”

Hadiza’s Friesian pranced nervously, and se held the reins tightly with her free hand to steady Nyx.

“Easy, easy,” she murmured, steadying her agitated mount, “I thought we did too. But it’s possible I missed a few. Let’s take care of it.”

Samson halted her. “What if you can’t close it? We don’t know what that demon’s done to the anchor…or what the Fade rift will do if you’re close to it.”

Hadiza met his gaze, her own hard. “And what if I can close it, and we just let the Fade rift continue to thrive? Eventually, something powerful enough on the other side will find it and come through. Are you so eager and willing to take the blood spilled onto your hands?”

It was a cruel thing to say and they both knew it, but Hadiza was angry with him. Angry that he had let her father come between them, and she did not care if she was petty. Samson narrowed his eyes at her, and she could almost feel the urge to shout orders at her rumble in his chest. Instead, he looked away.

“Let’s go.” Hadiza said, and spurred Nyx into a hard gallop, following the pulsing sensation of her left hand. The pulses grew stronger, and the pain was excruciating, but Hadiza let her anger and hurt mask it and protect her from it. The rift hovered high overhead, its sphere of influence wide. She stopped just beyond the boundary, and walked Nyx backward, out of harm’s way. Retrieving her staff, she extended it to a hafted sword, waiting for the others to prepare. Samson came to stand by her side as always. They had learned to fight as a pair, but even now, with a battle just minutes away from erupting in front of them, she had never felt more distant than having him play the stoic soldier.

“Lead the way, Inquisitor.” He said in a voice free of any inflection. Hadiza took a deep breath, shoving every hurt and distraction to the corner of her mind.

“Right. Let’s see what manner of demons we’re dealing with.” She muttered, “Alright, I’m going to cross over! Dorian, be ready to shield me! Aja, protect Feynriel!”

Aja was already next to the lad, who looked shocked, awed, and surprised. He had never seen a Fade rift before, and his only interactions with the Fade had been in dreams. To have a veritable tear in the Veil, opened into that eerie and strange reality in the physical world was fascinating…and frightening.

Hadiza crossed the nascent boundary, and the rift shuddered to have the anchor so near. Instantly, four beams shot toward the ground, and a high-pitched shriek emanated from them as the verdant light took on shape.

“Despair demons!” Hadiza shouted, “Vivienne, Dorian, fire them! Samson, you and I will trap them!”

They spilled into motion, a familiar dance to all save Feynriel. Aja wielded her battle-ax with fervor, shouting a taunt at one of them, which shrieks back, powering up for a freezing spell. Hadiza dove forward into a roll, and came up with a spirit blade in one hand, and her collapsed staff in the other. Samson swung _Redemption_ with a deft hand, knocking one demon toward Hadiza, who shredded it, her shields shattering in the process. It took him by surprise at first, to see her react so viciously, but then they were pulled back into the battle. Feynriel, who had honed only his abilities as a _somniari_ , felt as if he were in the way, casting fireballs while Aja’s ax sang through the air, heavy and glimmering in the sun. The elaborate etching on the blade was already caked with gore, and she sang as she killed.

The battle lasted only mere minutes.

“Is…is that all?” Feynriel asked tentatively, “…how come the—“

“Next wave!” Aja cried as the rift began to hiss and crackle. Hadiza gripped her weapons with more certainty, Samson at her fore, his sword angled across his body as the demons manifested.

Fear demons.

“Shit.” Hadiza murmured as all four let out the ear-piercing shriek heralding their attack. The battle erupted, and this time, Samson took the demon from behind, keeping its focus on the sword at its back while Hadiza called down lightning to paralyze it. It shuddered in place, momentarily, and Samson cut off its head, the body disintegrating back into the rift.

Aja swung without mercy, calling out for Feynriel to freeze the demon, but his ice magic was not enough. It slowed the demon, but there was nothing Feynriel could do to stop it. Hadiza, seeing this, was torn two ways. She cast a frost spell, freezing the demon’s feet to the ground, and immediately turned her attention to the approaching fear demon.

The ground around it rippled.

“It’s diving!” Hadiza cried. She waited as it sank, and then dove to one side while Samson dove to the other as it leapt from the ground in a flurry of claws and teeth. As it oriented itself, Hadiza lit it on fire. Its shrieks went from intimidating to painful and distressing, and then Samson cut it in two. As the halves split, they disintegrated and he and Hadiza met one another’s eyes briefly, both panting, covered in gore, and then turning as one to help finish the last one, which Vivienne shattered with an elegant flick of her wrist.

The rift convulsed, and Hadiza swallowed hard, lifting her left hand to close it. As before, the red magic overpowered the green, and as the power built, the veins glowed brighter.

And blood seemed to seep from her skin.

“Hadiza!” Samson cried, momentarily forgetting their quarrel as she shattered the rift and fell backward, her staff forgotten in the dirt as she clutched her infected arm, now covered in a light sheen of blood.

“There are no wounds…” Feynriel said, “…why are there no wounds?”

“There are.” Dorian said, “Her entire arm is a wound. And that demon inside of her is the reason why.”

Hadiza moaned in pain, ending in a croak as she curled in on herself, shuddering, trying to find her way back.

_Say yes, and I’ll take the pain away._

“No!” Hadiza sobbed, closing her fist on the throbbing wound in her palm. Pain ran along the fault lines in her arm, into her neck, making her feel as if her body would soon burst at the seams.

_Your suffering is unnecessary, Inquisitor. I told you you would know pain before the end. Say yes, and it will be ended!_

“Never!” Hadiza hissed, rolling gracelessly onto her stomach rising to her knees.

“Hadiza who are you talking to…?” Aja asked and Hadiza glanced around, wild-eyed, unfocused. Her friends gazed back, shocked and concerned. Samson reached for her and she leapt like a cat sprayed with water.

“Stay away from me!” She shouted. Samson frowned.

“Hadiza, let us help you,” Vivienne’s voice was gentle, “you’re not well…”

“I know I’m not well, damnit!” Hadiza shrieked, and the Anchor flared in retaliation, making her double over, a reminder of just how _not_ well she truly was, “Maker…please…make it stop…!”

She sobbed as the veins spread along her chest like fire and her friends were helpless to stop it.

_This battle is lost to you, Inquisitor. Submit._

“No!” She choked out, “No…” Whimpered for good measure. She was still as stone save for the expanding of her ribs as she breathed in, and then contracted in an exhale.

Samson thought he knew what it meant to suffer. His own suffering he could handle, but to watch someone he loved as sure as life itself suffer when he was powerless to stop it was another thing.

The Anchor flared, harder this time and Hadiza was on her feet, shaking her hand as if it had caught fire. Screaming as if _she_ were on fire.

“Samson,” Dorian said, “can you…can you nullify the magic?”

He sheathed his sword and didn’t answer. He had never attempted to smite the Anchor itself. He knew he could suppress her mana, but the Anchor was the raw power of the Fade itself…unstable and unpredictable. He approached her slowly as one would a cornered wolf. Hadiza looked at him with unfocused, tear-blurred eyes.

“Raleigh…it’s killing me…” She sobbed, “I can’t stop it…”

“Yes you can.” Samson said to her, “You’ve stopped it before.”

Hadiza shook her head, engulfed in verdant and crimson light as the Anchor continued to flare up.

“I can’t…it wasn’t me…it was Solas.”

“ _Fuck_ Solas.” Samson snapped and he got closer, building up the lyrium in his blood, drawing it to the center of his focus.

 _Just like a Harrowing_. He thought.

“Hadiza…” He murmured, coming closer until the light enveloped him, “Princess…you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. You beat Corypheus, remember?”

Hadiza, still unfocused, nodded absently. “Yes…” She agreed. Samson held out his hand.

“Let me help you, the way you helped me.” He told her. Hadiza nodded, and took his hand with her left. Their fingers entwined and Samson focused and brought down the holy smite, narrowing his concentration on the Anchor.

It fought back, but Samson had enough lyrium in him to quell it. The light faded, the garish glow of the infection dimming and shrinking back to her shoulder, and Hadiza trembled on unsteady legs. His other arm caught her about the waist as he held the smite, their hands linked until the Anchor dimmed. Hadiza watched him, wide eyed as the pain dimmed down and her head was clear.

“Raleigh?” She whispered, her voice more confident than before. Samson smiled at her, soft and secret.

“That’s me.” He said. Hadiza nodded, and slowly, reluctantly, he let go of her hand. She hugged him anyway, shutting her eyes in silent thanks. Samson’s arms came around her, his hands resting gently on her back.

“I hate to ruin your touching moment,” Dorian said dryly, “but I would rather get to the city before my next Name Day.”

Hadiza laughed, pulling away from Samson and retrieving her staff.

“Right.” She said with a tired laugh, “Sorry for the delay, Dorian. Let’s get moving, then.”

Hadiza took one step forward, then another, and suddenly the sky was wheeling and the ground was becoming the sky, and soon there was neither earth nor sky.

Only silence.

* * *

 

“You should not have tried to fight him on your own, Inquisitor.” Feynriel’s voice carried in the Fade as only his could. Hadiza stood in the empty projection of Skyhold’s main hall, the walls and floor all covered in red veins. On the Inquisition throne the pride demon sat, chained.

“How long will this hold?” Hadiza asked, keeping the demon warily through her peripheral. It shifted in its bindings, moving as no human could, smiling with Samson’s face.

“She likes when I wear this face. Makes it easier to talk to me.” It laughed rudely and Hadiza frowned.

“I don’t know how long it will hold,” Feynriel explained, “this one isn’t like the others. It’s…stronger.”

The demon shifted, took the face of a woman Hadiza did not know.

“My son, why hold me here? Why not let me help?” She asked and Hadiza struck the woman across the face. Seven eyes opened on the woman’s forehead, and the pride demon’s true face bled through momentarily to snarl at her.

“Watch yourself, mageling!” It snarled in twinned voices, “I made you an offer. Do not deign to strike me again or I will unleash a power on you that will strip your soul to shreds.”

Hadiza stared down at it. “I will never accept anything you offer, demon. Leave me be.”

Feynriel exhaled heavily through his nose, and gestured for Hadiza to follow him. They walked, side by side, away from the demon, who sat in eerie silence, seven eyes tracking them with a predator’s heightened awareness. The eyes blinked, and a long tongue slid out of the woman’s mouth, running along the row of sharp fangs beneath its thin lips.

“I’ve done the best I can do,” Feynriel told her, “but I do not think it will be enough. If your mother’s family has seers, they may be better equipped to take it out of you.” He looked away, suddenly unable to meet her gaze. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”

Hadiza shook her head. “Don’t be sorry,” she told him, “you have done more for me in the last few months than I could have done for myself. Were it not for you, I’d be an abomination by now.”

They didn’t look back at the demon, but the weight of its rapt gaze could be felt on their backs just the same. Hadiza sighed, looking out over the expanse of the Skyhold construct, and then up at the Fade’s eerie sky. In the distance, the Black City’s silhouette floated, shimmering like a mirage on the horizon.

“That rift…” Feynriel said, “when you said something more powerful might find it, what did you mean?” Hadiza blinked slowly, never taking her gaze off of the Black City.

“Each Fade rift is like a door left ajar,” Hadiza explained, “and while demons cannot widen the door, they can slip through the gap. However, if something—an entity more powerful than the average demon, that is—decided to come through, they could likely widen the doorway, twisting the Veil further.”

Feynriel looked surprised. “But…is that possible? It wouldn’t be like the Breach would it?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “I can’t say. It may be like the Breach if the way is opened wide enough. But Fade rifts for the most part are more stable. They tend not to grow any larger than what we saw.” She rubbed her right forearm absently. “Tend to manifest in some damned hard to reach places, though.”

At that, Feynriel laughed. “Does it matter? It seems the Anchor’s reach exceeds your grasp.”

Hadiza automatically flexed her fingers on her left hand. Here, in this place, pain was a construct that could be ignored, and so she did.

“It does, but with this recent instability, I’m loathe to use it. It’s my own damned fault for tampering with outlawed magics unprepared.” She sighed, looking down at her boots. Feynriel rested a hand on her shoulder, attempting to reassure her but it did not seem to do much good. Her shoulders slumped further and she sighed as if the weight of the world were upon them.

“You couldn’t have known, Inquisitor,” Feynriel told her, “you did what you could with what you had. And were it not for you, we’d all be offering up our necks to the boot heel of a false god, assuming we lived even that long.” Hadiza remembered the terrible and dark future she and Dorian had born witness to. The sky blown open, the world scorched to its bones, and demons allowed to run unchecked through the world in which few people were left. The Inquisition had been crushed, and the land poisoned. All under the rule of a darkspawn magister who ascended to godhood.

No, they would not have lived long enough to offer their neck to his boot heel. Hadiza wagered their blood would have been used to baptize his seat of power, and her corpse preserved as an example. She did not like to think on what almost was.

“Well,” she said, willing firmness back into her voice, “he’s dead and gone. I don’t think we’ll ever have to worry about the sky blowing open on top of us ever again.” She looked around as the Fade began to shimmer and change.

“You’re waking up.” Feynriel assured her as the ground beneath her feet began to tremor, “Just relax. Let it happen naturally. Once you’re aw—“

Hadiza’s eyes opened to diluted red light filtered through silk curtains, and the sound of chatter outside in the streets below. In the distance, a druffalo lowed in agitation, and chickens squawked and flapped in distressed, and the distant chime of bells fluttered through the open window, the curtain fluttering and providing extra air in the room, hovering over like a ghostly bird.

“Oh good,” Vivienne said, “you’re finally awake. I was afraid I was going to have to resort to something drastic.” Hadiza sat up, wincing as she touch her face. It was tender and sore. Vivienne came to her, bearing a tray of what smelled to be a strong brew of coffee. She set it down on the bedside table.

“You know,” she began, pouring Hadiza a cup, and scooping a bit of brown sugar into it, “I have never been to Rivain.” Hadiza took the proffered cup, lifting it to her mouth. Tentatively, she blew on it, making Vivienne frown. It was rude, but Hadiza had no interest in nursing burned lips, and so careful, frost blew from her mouth, just a harmless, tiny breeze, enough to make it drinkable.

Hadiza took a sip and sighed, the hot liquid searing down her throat and chest, pooling in her belly. She was at once relaxed and awake, and she set the cup down on the tray, feeling more alert.

“Really?” She asked, “Nor have I. But…it is the place that the southerners often associate with us, right? Might as well become acquainted with our heritage.” She smiled but Vivienne did not smile back, instead she quietly sipped her coffee.

“Did you really agree with my father?” Hadiza asked suddenly, “About Samson? Is that why he won’t even look at me or touch me lately?” Vivienne did not so much as flinch or twitch an eyebrow. She calmly set her cup on the tray and folded her hands in her lap.

“I told you what would happen if you continued to parade about with him, did I not? If I agreed with your father on anything, it was that you needed to think of what was best for your social standing, not just as a Trevelyan but as the Inquisitor as well. While you cavort with Samson, the Inquisition’s reputation and political clout wanes. If you insist on carrying on like that, then do not be shocked if an Exalted March shows up on your doorstep, or you are taken to task for this…sin you’ve committed.”

“There is no sin in love.” Hadiza said and Vivienne scoffed.

“Do not be silly, Hadiza. This is not a time for games. Your reach and reputation will be severed from you do you continue. I merely urged your father to be honest with none of the usual theatrics he employs. As cantankerous as the man is, I can agree with him on that much at least.”

Hadiza frowned. “So what do I do? Just…forget everything? Go home and be married off to some ham-fisted son of a nobleman, lie on my back like a dutiful wife, and breed?”

Vivienne gave her a withering look. “No. You need not do anything. Samson had the sense of mind to remove himself from the equation. You need to be focused on the future, Hadiza. You cannot bind your fate to him.” There was sadness in her eyes, “You have the wealth and standing to aspire higher. Higher than I had been allowed to at your age. Do not squander that opportunity for a few fleeting years of passion.”

Hadiza looked away, knowing that some part of this was right. “I don’t want to aspire to anything, Vivienne,” she murmured, “I’ve lived my entire life by someone else’s rules. First as a Trevelyan, then a Circle mage, and now the Inquisitor. Like it or not, I will eventually have to disband it, and then what? I can’t go back to my home in Ostwick. It hasn’t felt like home for me since I was 14.”

Vivienne sat back in her chair, unfolding her hands. “So you’ll…what? Take your precious, burned out husk of a templar and run off to go live like wildlings in the savage north? You want to spend what little time he has left to him living as a social pariah?”

Hadiza looked down at her hands. “No. I mean…I don’t truly care about that. I wish…why can’t any of you just see what I see?”

“We do, my dear. What you are failing to see is why that does not matter when it comes to his guilt. No amount of your love and kindness will ever absolve him in the eyes of the people he hurt. And you have seen that memories are long. Although, it has only been a year, almost two. Do you expect the world to see in him what it took a year for you to unearth?”

Hadiza bit her lip. “No. But what has this to do with my father attempting to marry me off like some…”

“…Nobleman’s daughter?” Vivienne finished, “Whatever else you are, Hadiza, you are still that. And you are the eldest.”

“He only wants to use my status as Inquisitor to bolster his position in the Council,” Hadiza protested. “He has a pretty pale wife, and a son with the acceptable skin color. He has no need of me anymore.”

Vivienne said nothing, merely finished her coffee and stood.

“And what will you do, Hadiza? Your father is one of the biggest financiers of the Inquisition. Our coffers remain full, and our stores remain plentiful so long as your father maintains his staunch support. Do you defy him, and he withdraws his support of the Inquisition, how long do you think you can keep your people fed and warm before you must go begging?”

Hadiza took several labored breaths, her frustration at being cornered plain on her face. Vivienne inclined her head.

“You should get washed up and dressed. The others have begun a tentative investigation, but you and I are better suited to this place given it is the one place where everyone looks like we do. Be prompt, my dear.” Vivienne didn’t wait for Hadiza’s reply, and instead left her there, sitting upright in bed, the scent of clove and jasmine heavy in the air.

* * *

Dairsmuid was unlike any other city she had ever seen.

It was clear from the moment she stepped out into the street that this was a city that thrived on adaptation and survival. The streets sprawled in curves and alleyways, and not only that but it was _alive_. The people were animated, chatting with one another in the polyglot tongue or the Common. Hadiza heard bits of Qunlat spoken by humans, elves, and Qunari, heard Orlesian with a Tevinter accent, heard the loud, unfettered laughter of several women around a market stall where one of them was frying tender druffalo meat in a deep, cast iron pan. The smell alone made her stomach grumble. Women strung up their laundry across lines between the closely-packed buildings, the wet laundry dripping into the alleyways below, making the flagstones slick. A stray dog was chased off by a cobbler brandishing one of his slippers, cursing in a tongue Hadiza had never heard. Everything about Dairsmuid was animated and busy, and Hadiza found she had no idea where to start her investigation.

The backstreet bazaar opened into the wide avenue of one of the main streets, which when she looked down, seemed to have worn down etched designs in the stones. She smiled, wondering.

“Try not to get too dazzled,” Dorian quipped cheerfully, “wouldn’t want you to get lost.” Hadiza looked up at him. Whatever expression she wore, softened his smile, and he said nothing. Together, they made their way through the city, asking around. No one seemed to know where House Fayé was truly located. They searched the middle class, who had a vague idea, but despite being so small on the map, Rivain was very large when on foot, and so she and Dorian climbed higher in the social strata, entering the noble quarter of the city. The streets were quieter, the outfits far more luxurious, and tall elegant archways marked the intersections of major streets.

Answers were harder to come by, as nobles were ill-inclined to speak to them, and no small wonder. After weeks on the road, neither one of them looked dressed to fit their station.

“Where are the others?” She asked. Dorian shrugged.

“I imagine while we have been chasing our own tails down here, Madame Vivienne is likely having tea with the Queen as we speak. Feynriel is probably getting convinced to buy some precious bauble or another. And your templar is likely going to find himself the odd man out, soon.”

Hadiza pinched the bridge of her nose. They were getting no where with this disorganized search. As much as she loathed to do it, she needed to visit in an official capacity.

“Maybe they’ll take me seriously as the Inquisitor.” She suggested later, when they’d all returned to the inn, tired and hungry.

“After what happened here?” Samson laughed. “They’d sooner welcome the magisters of old with open arms than the strong arm of the Chantry.” Hadiza sank in her chair. It was true. For once, the title of Inquisitor would avail her nothing in a land where the Chantry did not rule, and she’d read the history of Rivain. The Chantry had tried time and again to establish authority in this place.

Three Exalted Marches in 150 years.

“I need to find the Dairsmuid Circle.” Hadiza said suddenly.

Vivienne frowned. “My dear that’s an impossible task. The Seekers left nothing standing.”

Hadiza made an impatient gesture. “I know, I know. They…look. I need to find where it once was. Do any of you have a reliable map or something?”

Aja sucked on one of the druffalo tail bones thoughtfully. “I can get you there, Diza. Not to worry.” She said calmly. Hadiza nodded.

“Tomorrow, then?” Feynriel asked. “I too would like to see where the Circle once stood.”

Hadiza shook her head. “No. Not tomorrow. Right now.”

“It’s late, Hadiza,” Samson cautioned, “we’re in a foreign country none of us have been to—“

Aja coughed conspicuously and he shot her a dark look.

“We’re in a country only one of us has been too,” he continued, “and she was too drunk to remember most of it. We have no idea how dangerous it gets here at night. Can it wait until morning?” He asked her. Hadiza stared at him for a while, thinking, considering, weighing, and measuring. Samson did not look away, but he hardened himself against her. It was all he could do.

“No.” Hadiza said at last, and the word dropped like a stone between them, flat and inflectionless, but heavy with purpose. “Aja, when we’re finished here, you can take us.”

Aja looked at Samson, whose jaw set in agitation, and then she chuckled to herself, washing down the flavor of the spiced stew with wine.

“Can do, sister.” She said brightly, “Any particular reason why we’re going?”

Hadiza stared into her cup, her reflection rippling in the wine. She didn’t answer for three breaths.

“Have to pay my respects to our aunt. And then ask anyone who still lives in that area where we can find her family.”

* * *

 

The crumbling ruin that had been the Dairsmuid Circle was as grim as Hadiza expected it to be. The people around it gave it a wide berth, and all around were large poles with fluttering pennants and strange writing. Hadiza felt a great sense of foreboding as she drew nearer to the place. Feynriel’s face was a mask of discomfort.

“What’s wrong with you two?” Aja asked, blinking in confusion as Hadiza felt her mouth begin to water profusely. She held up her hand, telling Aja to wait, and then stumbled over to the ruined wall, leaning over to wretch. A few moments later, Feynriel did the same thing.

“You all aren’t from around here, are you?” A voice mused. Almost instantly, Aja was at the ready, sword half-drawn.

“You can relax.” The voice mused, coming from one of the many shadows crowding the ominous and gaping wound that had been the Circle. “I have no interest in your money or your life. However, I am very much interested in why you are here, of all places.”

“Why don’t you come out and assure us, shadow-dweller?” Aja growled. There was no answer, but a rustle of fabric and a figure stepped into the silvery moonlight, seemingly birthed from the shadow it had been crouched in. Aja’s brow furrowed and Hadiza and Feynriel came to stand beside her. The figure pulled back the cowl of the cloak, revealing a woman. She was older than them, her hair shot through with silver, woven into tight plaits. Her eyes were dark, and she squinted at them a moment.

“Huh. You’re a lot taller from this vantage point,” she said, and took a step forward, freezing when Aja drew her sword and Hadiza readied an arcane bolt. Holding up her hands. “Easy there, I mean you no harm. I’m…you’re probably not going to believe this but, I was sent here by the seeress of House Fayé to retrieve you.”

Aja hesitated but did not lower her sword. Hadiza dropped her hand, the warbling potential energy of the bolt dissipating.

“How did they know we were here?” She asked, “And why send you?”

The woman laughed. “It’s not my place to question the seers. You Chantry-raised mages may not believe, but take a good look around you: _someone_ believed enough to consider them dangerous. You think I want to test their mettle?” She laughed again, loud and uproarious. “I’d sooner leap into a dragon’s open maw.”

Hadiza and Aja exchanged glances.

“And who are you, exactly?” Hadiza asked tentatively, “And how can we verify your claim?”

The woman laughed again. “You must have really been through it in the Inquisition if you don’t trust why I know exactly you are here. You come seeking House Fayé, yes? I can take you to them. The Seeress and matriarch has requested it.”

“We’ve been asking around all over this damnable city,” Aja groused, “you could have been tailing us. Trying to win our confidence.”

The woman nodded. “True, true. And if you are wrong? Do you think you’ll ever reach them in time, before whatever is eating her consumes her entirely?” She jerked her chin to Hadiza, who instinctively tugged her sleeve down to hide the infection despite the heat.

“I don’t trust her, Diza,” Aja said, “let’s cut her down and have done with it. We can ask someone else to point us where we need to go.”

“What if she’s telling the truth?” Hadiza asked. “No one knows about my…affliction. Except for the Inquisition. If the Seeress dreamed of us and seeks us out, it will make our journey easier and swifter.”

The older woman made a gesture with her hands. “Ah! I am so overjoyed that the sensible one is in charge! Please, gather your comrades and meet me at the western gate before sunrise.”

Hadiza nodded and as they began to head back, she stopped the woman.

“I…what are these?” She asked, gesturing to the poles with the marked pennants. The mysterious lady’s face turned grim.

“They are wards of protection.” She said simply. “To protect.”

“Protect whom?” Feynriel asked. The woman laughed, and there was no humor in it.

“You know what the Seekers and the Chantry did here,” she said seriously, “and you know what happens when there is a high concentration of violent death in one area. These are to protect the city from whatever may yet linger.”

“The Veil thinned here.” Hadiza surmised, remembering Solas’ explanation. The woman smiled thinly.

“Smart girl. The old seeress will like you, I think. Western gate, just before sunrise, don’t forget!” And then she was gone, as quiet as a shadow. Wordlessly, the trio made their way back to the inn, and when dawn came, they were ready.

* * *

The woman’s name was Nadja, a mercenary of some small fame, and a friend of House Fayé. The journey to their township would take four days on horseback, but with their supply cart, a week would be set aside for the journey. For the most part, they traveled in relative silence, although Feynriel was curious to Nadja’s origins, which she deflected with all the wit and humor of a courtier.

“Are you certain of her?” Vivienne asked as she and Hadiza rode alongside one another. Most of the country was flat, rolling plains, dry and hot. Hadiza, in the open and with no one for miles to see her, allowed her infected arm time to breathe. Whatever Feynriel had done, it kept the voice of the demon quiet, but she could feel its presence still, like a rake of nails along the skin of her defenses, clawing for purchase, begging entry. She denied it at every turn, but she could feel its growing restlessness, the strain against the bindings placed upon it, its _raw power_.

“We were getting no where in Dairsmuid, Vivienne,” Hadiza said absently, “at least she offers us a safe route. And aside, there was no way she could have known about my arm unless…Vivienne, I honestly don’t know. I feel like I’ve reached the edge of everything I thought I knew. I’m just as wary and questioning as you.”

Vivienne sniffed. “Not quite. If that were so you wouldn’t have wound up with—“

“Not now, Vivienne,” Hadiza said irritably, “you’ve made it quite clear—you’ve _all_ made it quite clear—that you disapprove of my decision to be with a man convicted of war crimes. I sincerely wish you’d at least wait a day before reminding me again.” Thus agitated, Hadiza spurred Nyx on ahead. Samson rode alone, watching her go. What he felt then was not the unquenchable flame the Chant spoke of. He wanted to go to her, tell her that he meant none of it, that this was for her own good, but he didn’t.

He just watched her go, filled with self-loathing.

The town they traveled to was called Zazzau, not nearly as large as Dairsmuid, but around the same size as Ayesleigh, a city farther south. Zazzau was a walled town, but the walls were low, and Hadiza noted with some twisted sense of pride that she had yet to see walls that compared to the dual-walled city of her birth, Ostwick. The Marches were still her home, despite the memories, and she rode straight-backed and proud toward the city. Nadja came to join her, smiling brightly.

“Zazzau is under the protection of House Fayé,” she explained, “many decades ago, during the Chantry’s last attempt at beating us, House Fayé defended Zazzau from the Divine’s forces, augmenting their battlemages with the Queen’s contingent forces. The battle lasted for two days before the Chantry called them back. It is said that Zazzau has never been taken. And no Chantry has been built within its walls in all of Rivain’s history.”

Hadiza glanced sidelong at Nadja. “Why the sudden history lesson?” She asked warily. Nadja chuckled, sitting deeper in her saddle.

“Well, _Inquisitor_ , if you must know: I happen to know a templar when I see one. And given what you know of Dairsmuid’s annulment, how well do you think he’ll fare in a town like Zazzau?” Nadja asked, smiling impishly, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes deepening, lending even more mischievousness to her smile. Hadiza glanced over her shoulder, where Samson rode at the rear, looking miserable in the heat. His hair was stringy with sweat, and his skin red from the sun’s pitiless face.

Hadiza glanced back toward the town in the distance, which shimmered in the afternoon heat.

“He has not been a templar for a long time.” Hadiza said simply, “It is not a life he lives any longer.”

Nadja laughed. “Do you honestly think that matters? He represents a very real enemy to these people.”

“So what am I to do? Tell him to wait outside the city while I parlay with my distant family?” Hadiza demanded. Nadja did nothing in response to her anger. Instead,she shrugged.

“It’s not my decision to make, and so don’t look to me for answers.” She said candidly, “I was merely giving you fair warning for the type of…social and political climate to expect when we arrive.”

In the distance, horns sounded, and there was the distant roar of cheering. Nadja grinned.

“Ah! You may get lucky after all. It seems there’s a wedding going on!” Nadja squeezed her mount into a canter, and Hadiza watched her head toward Zazzau, which grew larger as they came closer. The wall, which had looked so pitiable to her from a distance, now reached toward heaven, and it was the most beautiful wall she’d ever seen.

In Ostwick, the walls were smooth, sun-bleached and brine-tinged from the sea’s wet winds and the battering of storms. Save for the stains of algae and muck at the base, Ostwick’s walls were pristine in appearance. Zazzau’s wall was a riot of color, individual pieces of colored stone painstakingly fused to form a veritable mosaic of every color imaginable. Her eyes hurt trying to find a pattern where there was none, but the entirety of the wall was colorful, lending a festive atmosphere to the gate, which was open. Nadja was smiling brightly, clearly glad to be home as they rode beneath the high portcullis, the sounds of celebration and music coming from within. The streets were paved, though some of the alleyways and side streets were little more than hard-packed earth.

And there were jasmine petals _everywhere_.

The entire town was fragrant with the scent of jasmine, and Hadiza blinked, wondering whose wedding would be so celebrated. Jasmine was a priceless flower in the south, highly coveted by Orlesian noblewomen for its fragrance and the medicinal properties of its oils and extracts. A single bloom could cost upwards to 400 sovereigns in season. Out of season that price could triple to 1200 sovereigns a bloom. Only in Orlais, however. Elsewhere, it was a great deal less coveted. To see it littering the streets like snow was unreal to her.

“Welcome to Zazzau, friends,” Nadja laughed, “try not to look so aghast, Hadiza. You wished to meet the scions of House Fayé. Well, there is no better time to treat with them than when they have just celebrated a union to another noble House. Come!” Nadja dismounted, and the others followed suit, leading their mounts by the reins as they made their way into the town, where the crowd cheered.

“When do we meet with them?” Hadiza asked Nadja who caught one of the showers of jasmine in her hand, fixing the stray blooms in her hair, much like other women in the town were doing.

“Oh, I imagine soon,” Nadja said absently, “it would be rude to arrive uninvited.”

“I imagine we’d be received with some apprehension and aloofness either way,” Hadiza countered, “but is there no way to send word? Just to be cordial.”

Nadja shrugged. “The Matriarch has _seen_ you, already. My guess is that tomorrow would be a better attempt. She will likely dream of your arrival this night, and send a runner to fetch you in the morning. Let’s find you some lodging, yes?” Nadja glanced around, as if trying to assert her bearings, and then laughed to herself. “This way, this way. Step lightly, and look alive! It’s someone’s wedding day!”

Hadiza did not feel so festive. 

* * *

 

The inn Nadja led them to was called _All Souls Rest_ , which Vivienne found to be ghastly and grim, but upon seeing the lush accommodations was willing to let the name be forgiven. As always, she had a room to herself, while the others divvied up the rooms according to the funds.

“Well.” Nadja said, “My work here is done. Feel free to avail yourselves to the town as you will. I’m sure House Fayé will send word for you in the morning or afternoon…depending on how strong the _ogogolo_ is tonight. Not to worry! The Matriarch isn’t a heavy drinker, so she’ll likely have her wits about her while everyone else is clutching their heads in shame.”

“Wait!” Hadiza said, reaching for Nadja’s arm, who deftly avoided her, “Where…where will you be?”

Nadja smiled. “Oh. Around, I suppose. I’ve business to attend to, and you likely need time to prepare your…introduction. The Fayé can be a fastidious lot so I’d make sure I were convincing were I you. The patriarch is not known for his patience, and let me tell you: I’ve seen what happens to those who refuse to err on the side of caution when crossing that House.” Nadja rested her hands on Hadiza’s shoulders, looking up at her and squeezing them. “Good luck, Inquisitor.”

And then Hadiza was alone amongst her friends, knowing less than she did before.

 

Samson visited her that night, when the sounds of celebration were still outside, but dying to a distant roar as folk began to stumble back to their homes and inns, spilling out of taverns and brothels. Hadiza stood on the tiny little balcony overlooking a quieter side street, and in her mind, she turned over the words she wished to say. He stood at her door, hands shaking, flexing and squeezing his fingers, pacing.

 _Just knock, you fuckin’ dolt._ He chided himself quietly. Taking a deep breath, and wincing as he reached his limit from the sharp pain in his body, he knocked. Hadiza turned and went towards her door, opening it. She seemed as surprised to see him as he was to see that she answered it.

“Ral—Samson,” she whispered, “what is it? Something wrong?” Samson did not miss how her hesitation cut at his heart. He wished he wasn’t vulnerable to her, wished so badly for her to be…who she had been a year and more ago: his enemy.

“No.” He said quietly, “No. I just…I came to check on you is all. I know you’ve been having a rough time of it and I haven’t…” He glanced around, “May I come in?”

Hadiza blinked and for a moment she considered saying no to him. She considered telling him how he’d wounded her, and considered letting him stew a bit more. But the truth was, she could no more hurt him without hurting herself, than he could do the same. So she opened the door and stood aside, and let in the best mistake she ever made.

Samson sighed with relief as he heard the door shut behind him.

“I haven’t been the best guardian, have I?” He asked and Hadiza said nothing, watching him from her place not far from the door. He huffed. Fine, he’d just say it. “I’m sorry. I know this has been hard on you, but you have to understand: I’m doing this for your protection.”

Hadiza still said nothing, her gaze steady. Samson was lost. Had they really drifted so far off course that he could no longer read her?

Or had she gotten so good at hiding that she wouldn’t even let herself be around him?

Maker, he was losing her, and it was his own damned fault.

 _Or you never had her to begin with._ Came the taunt. _Did you think you could sleep forever? The dream is fading. Wake up, Raleigh._

“You let my father’s words convince you to do something you didn’t want to do,” Hadiza said quietly, “and you did it without informing me of anything. You were given a choice and you made it.” Hadiza’s facade cracked, and tears rolled down her face. “And you _stole_ mine.”

Samson had no reply to that. Hadiza walked toward him.

“Did you think I didn’t know the social and political consequences? Was I not the one who told you what would happen when you first came to spend the night in my chambers? Does no one ever consider that maybe, just maybe, I might know what the fuck I’m about?” Her eyes dried up, she was looking at him the way she did when she first judged him. “You knew me. You still know me, and you know when I make a decision it’s not lightly.”

Samson couldn’t be angry with her. “It’s not an easy thing to be loved by the Inquisitor,” he said, “but I can’t stand there and let you take blows meant for me, Hadiza. I’m a war criminal, whether or not I’ve atoned. I still have to pay for my crimes.”

“And when is it enough?” Hadiza asked him. “Who decides when you’ve suffered and toiled enough to make up for the lives lost? Apparently I don’t, as Ferelden sought to prove. Perhaps it _should_ be left up to the Maker what to do with you.”

“And perhaps you should let me…” Samson stopped himself, “Andraste’s ass, woman…you’re infuriating.”

“You’re insufferable.” She shot back.

They were quiet for a moment, and it seemed for a while, things would return to normal.

“There’s never been a Chantry here, apparently.” Hadiza said and Samson blinked.

“Lucky them. What has that got to do with anything?”

“You’re a templar.”

“I _was_ a templar.”

Hadiza frowned. “You know what I meant. Aside, you still drink lyrium and use your abilities. We’re about to be given an audience with a prominent noble house known for its mages and magical potency.”

Samson sat down in one of the chairs by the breakfast table. “I’m old, Hadiza, but I can still defend myself.”

“I know,” she said coming to him, “but you’re one templar in a town that reveres its mages. In a town that in three Exalted Marches has never been occupied or taken by the Chantry.”

“Then they’re a damned sight luckier than the rest of the world,” Samson snarled, “they’ll never have to know the lies told by that place.”

Hadiza didn’t respond, but there was something in her expression that made him look at away.

“Still?” She asked him softly, the healer in her surfacing. Samson said nothing, merely glowered at the floor. Then, he stood, heading back toward the door.

“Raleigh.” She said his name, and he stopped, feeling the name shackle his heart, pulling him back to her. “Will you stay?”

Her voice sounded so small in the room, and raw and vulnerable, and Maker he wanted to go to her, to tell her damn the consequences. He wanted to kiss her again, taste her, to once more know that she loved him implicitly, despite everything. He took a deep breath, and then opened the door. Hadiza swallowed a lump in her throat as he left, shutting it behind him.

This time, she could not dam up her tears, nor did she want to.

* * *

( Art by me. This is Nadja as she appears in  _this_ story. )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Wall of Zazzau is inspired by the gate leading to the Emir of Zaria's palace [here](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/f5/Kanogate2.jpg) in my homeland, Nigeria.
> 
> Comment, questions, concerns? Leave them below.¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	25. Convergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad shit happens. Mayhem. Chaos. Read on.

The morning brought a hearty and bountiful breakfast, and news.

“So we just…wait?” Aja asked, for perhaps the fourth time, “There was nothing else? Just wait and hope they send for us?”

Hadiza nodded, picking over the spiced bean sauce and boiled yam she’d ordered. “Yes. We wait. I’ll give them a full day to recover from the nuptial festivities and then we go to them.”

“Hadiza,” Vivienne said, “we aren’t common beggars to go scraping at the front gate. Have you forgotten who you are?”

“I can’t go as my title, Vivienne,” Hadiza countered, “remember…this town has never been taken, never submitted. That title will avail me nothing in this place. But, I can go on the claim that I am family, and as such, deserve an audience to make my petition at least.”

Dorian was reading through a book he’d picked up when they arrived, and he smiled, sipping his coffee.

“It says here House Fayé has a very good reputation for honoring tradition and laws of the land. It is the main reason Zazzau has prospered for this long, despite Rivain’s history with the Chantry. Hadiza, your mother’s family is…not a minor house at all.”

Hadiza chuckled. “Really? Growing up we were always told it was a minor house of no note. I guess that was just more Marcher gossip attempting to belittle her.” She said with a sneer. “The more I learn, the less I’m beginning to like anything south of Rivain’s border, truly.”

“That so?” Samson asked, “Hard to say that, being Marcher-born, yourself.”

Hadiza froze and dropped her fork.

“You all continue without me,” she said pushing back from the table, “I’m going to explore the town.” She shot Samson a cold look, “I have suddenly lost my appetite.”

And then she left without another word.

Aja glared at Samson. “Was that really fuckin’ necessary?” She demanded.

“Language.” Vivienne warned but Aja ignored her.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Trevelyan.” Samson said returning her glower with one of his own, “She hates the place where she was born. I merely noted how strange that was. Kirkwall was a shit hole, but I didn’t love it any less. It was still home.”

“It’s a lot more complicated than that, and you know it.” Dorian told him, “Or maybe you don’t, considering the circumstances.”

Samson’s hands came to rest on the table slowly, and he hazarded a slow glance toward the mage.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asked quietly.

“It means you’re a fuckin’ dunce,” Aja snapped, “it means in all the time you’ve spent with Hadiza you don’t know a damn thing about her. Except what position she likes to fuck best, I suppose.”

“Aja!” Vivienne hissed, “You left your raider days behind you. Please see to it that you leave your raider _vulgarity_ behind as well.”

“Sod decorum,” Aja said, “this fuckhead has been acting like an ass since father told him he’d never marry Hadiza. As if what father says matters. And you can’t talk either, Vivienne, you damn well agreed with him. Now we can’t go one day without them sniping at one another.”

“I will say the nights have been a great deal quieter without the two of them carrying on,” Dorian said casually, “but she’s right. With you two constantly fighting, it’s making it hard for us to get anything done.”

Feynriel remained quiet throughout the ordeal, watching as the three older Inquisition members argued amongst themselves. Having finished his breakfast, he excused himself from the table, and left the inn to do some exploring of his own.

* * *

 

Her anger made it hard for her to hear anything. It was a roar in her ears, a fever in her blood, a coiled and dangerous energy begging to lash out at anyone—anything. She wanted nothing more than to do some sort of damage, but she found no outlet, so she paced the streets of Zazzau angrily, with no destination in mind, and no intention of getting anything done. During the day, the sun baked the streets, and folk retreated indoors or into the relative shade of the covered market and bazaar near the grand central intersection of the town. Hadiza had no intention to buy anything, but her curiosity got the better of her, and she found herself browsing.

It never occurred to her that she was being followed.

So far-flung from the politics of the Chantry, of Orlais, of Ferelden, and even of her father’s scheming machinations, Hadiza never gave thought that she would be anything but free to roam in this place, where none knew her name or title or why she came. So when curious whispers started up within earshot, she paid them little heed.

Instead, she began browsing a textile seller, who began to show off his best pieces. No silk or satin here. But finely spun cotton and wool, brightly colored, with intricate patterns. Hadiza ran her fingertips over one, wondering how many bolts of the fabric she would need to create a suitable dress. A hand came to rest gently on her arm, startling her. She turned to face a man a half a head taller than she was, with rich dark skin, and a head full of springy, curly hair. What startled him was not his touch, but his eyes. They were _silver_.

He smiled at her, showing even white teeth. “Mai kyau-da yamma kada ka zo nan sau da yawa?” He asked. Hadiza swallowed, uncertain. Her mother had spoken her milk-tongue to her growing up, but it had been so long since Hadiza had been able to utter a word of it to anyone save herself, that she had trouble understanding.

“Ina…” She began, “…Ina tuba. I do not speak the tongue so well anymore.” The man’s brows went up and he laughed.

“My apologies,” he switched to the Trader’s Tongue, heavily accented but not a word nor syllable out of place, “it is just that you resemble our family so closely. Who are you?”

Hadiza sighed with relief. “I’m family…in a sense…a daughter of a daughter, so to speak. I came seeking an audience with the matriarch.” The man, as yet unnamed, offered his arm.

“Then allow me to escort you, Daughter of a Daughter,” he said with a sly wink, “perhaps you can tell me a bit more about yourself on the way.” Hadiza stopped walking, making him stop as well.

“I’m sorry,” she told him, “but I don’t remember agreeing to come with you. I have to get back to my friends.”

The man never stopped smiling, and now his even white teeth and smooth, unblemished skin were beginning to unnerve her. She tugged her arm, finding his grip to be akin to iron shackles. His hand squeezed her elbow until she felt the pressure ease into the sharp, grinding pain.

“I’m afraid that I am unable to allow that.” He said in a friendly voice that was decidedly _not_ friendly at all. Hadiza narrowed her eyes and instinctively reached for her magic…and found her mana depleted.

“I wouldn’t if I were you.” He said with a breathless laugh, “Let’s take a walk, and we can talk on the way there. The rest of the family is very anxious to meet you.”

* * *

 

Feynriel found the color and sound of the town of Zazzau to be a bit overwhelming at first, but eventually, the noise of the market and the bustle of the streets turned to background noise while he explored. Petals and blooms of jasmine still littered the streets from the day prior, and their fragrance helped to beat back the stench of slaughtered meat, of offal, of human excrement, and the general stench of unwashed flesh. However, as the day grew hotter, the scents mingled, making the town aromatic and pungent. Even that became a background distraction and he learned not to breathe too deeply.

Normally, everywhere he went, Feynriel did not feel so out of sorts, did not stand out save for the subtle quirks in his appearance.

Here, in Rivain, he was as stark in contrast as night and day. Yet, for all that, he did not feel as if this were an inherently bad thing…merely an uncomfortable one. He walked amongst people with skin the color of earth, sand, and wood, their teeth stark against their faces when they smiled. They chattered in a tongue he had never heard, and knowing him for a foreigner, made attempts to speak in an amalgamation of tongues until Feynriel could catch a word here or there.

He got his first true taste at haggling at the market—or attempting to—as he clumsily argued over the price of a bronze ewer, etched with the same intricate patterns seen on Zazzau’s outer wall. He’d been about to settle on the price when a hand clapped his shoulder.

“You almost got swindled there,” Aja said cheerily, giving him a toothy grin, “you don’t speak a lick of Rivaini, eh?”

Feynriel shook his head, smiling shyly. “Wasn’t exactly in the repertoire all the way in Minrathos.” He said, watching as Aja examined the goods, speaking in a rapid tongue that seemed to come only from the roof of the mouth. He noted how the merchant seemed genuinely surprised at her fluency, and she smirked, tilting her head so that her silverite gaze caught the light.

The merchant blanched, citing that any goods she wished were hers at an obscenely discounted price.

“Anyting for the most exalted House Fayé.” The merchant said, bowing low, eyes on the ground as Aja and Feynriel collected their purchases.

“Strange way to thank me for cheating him…” Aja muttered with a laugh, “Have you seen my sister? She left in a huff this morning but she never came back to the inn.” Feynriel shook his head, trying to keep in step with Aja even as he sought to take in the sights, smells, and sounds of the vibrant town in full swing. With the wedding festivities ended, people were busy clearing the streets, sweeping stoops and patios vigorously as shops and taverns resumed their usual activity. Carts pulled by oxen rumbled through the streets, collecting the tossed jasmine blooms. Even then, the city was still fragrant with the scent, and Feynriel caught flashes of white beneath the grime of the street of petals that had been trampled underfoot.

“Jasmine is such a coveted flower in Tevinter,” he said at last, “it is so strange to see so much of it in abundance here.”

“Jasmine is native here, that’s why.” Aja said, “So there’s no feverish clamor for it when one can simply go into the bush and find some. Although, knowing how the rest of the world covets the flower has led to a very booming trade, so now there’s likely entire farms of the stuff.” They walked for some time before Aja stopped.

“Alright, we’ve been all over this town. Are you sure you haven’t seen Hadiza?” Aja asked him as they stopped to buy bread. Feynriel sighed.

“I truly haven’t.” He said, and after a moment’s hesitation he looked around, “I could…enter the dreamscape and find her that way.”

Aja was about to speak when Nadja came to stand before them.

“That’s a disaster waiting to happen,” she said brightly, “because House Fayé would kill you in the Fade and then where would you be?”

Feynriel blanched, even beneath his rapidly browning skin. “Where did you come from?” He asked.

Aja snarled. “She’s been tailing us for some time,” she sneered, “isn’t that right?”

Nadja idly took a bite of the apple she held, chewing thoughtfully. “I might have been. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that Hadiza is already at House Fayé.”

“What?!” Aja and Feynriel cried in unison. Nadja blinked, staring at both of them, amused. She gestured to the west of the town, where the pristine white walls of a great house could be see in the distance, nestled among the foothills of the great mountains along Rivain’s western coast. Aja followed her gesture, frowning. Feynriel swallowed hard.

“If I were you, I’d gather the rest of your friends and join her.” Nadja finished off her apple, glib as one could be in a situation in which the misery of others was but idle amusement, “They didn’t seem too thrilled when they took her in earlier.”

“Shit.” Aja muttered, “Shit. Alright, alright. Feynriel, go back to the inn and get the others.”

“But—“ Feynriel began in protest. Aja turned her terrible expression on him, quelling his protest.

“Go and get them. I have to head over to…well I have to go rescue my sister. If they know she’s the Inquisitor, they may not have any qualms causing her harm.”

Nadja chuckled. “I knew you were smart beneath that fake brainless brute routine. Good job.” She turned to leave but Aja’s hand shot out, a snake strike and a grip like stone. For the first time, the glib demeanor Nadja employed faded and Aja saw the sinister leviathan that lurked beneath. Her dark eyes were hard as onyx, and there was something akin to a cobra flaring its hood in her expression. Aja was not cowed, having a beast of her own kept beneath her skin, and for a moment, it was a war of wills—Reaver and Killer—as the two women stared one another down.

“You would do well not to insult me further,” Aja said quietly, and despite the din of the bazaar and the town in general, somehow she pitched her voice just so to be heard, “it is only by my sister’s grace that I did not strike you down or move against you.”

Nadja did not smile, and Feynriel became increasingly unnerved by it. She reminded him of Ariadne, only there was no bond of blood-kinship to stay this woman’s hand. Quicker than Aja had been, Nadja revealed the blade she held poised with her other hand, and pressed close to Aja so that she could feel it against her ribs. One hard push and Nadja could find the woman’s heart easily.

“You will learn soon enough,” Nadja said, and her voice was wintery in the afternoon heat, “that you are a snarling pup in the presence of wolves, child. I have been at this for far longer than you and your precious sister. I have been kind and patient. Do you rebuff this, then I will be left with little choice but to hurt you, and little excuse as to why I should not.”

Aja was very still save for the intake of breath that let Feynriel know she was still alive. Nadja waited and Aja let go of her arm. After a momentary heartbeat, Nadja pulled back, and the blade was gone, sheathed somewhere on her body.

“Now,” she said, the glib and lackadaisical demeanor returning as if it had never gone, “shall we get your friends and head to the house?”

* * *

Hadiza had known extravagance of wealth in Orlais, and had known the comforts of being nobility both in Skyhold and in Ostwick. She had born witness to the ostentatious decor of manor houses outside of Val Royeaux, of the severe but majestic spires of Ostwick reaching toward heaven, and in the lush and comfortable chambers she had been afforded in Skyhold.

And yet, as she passed through the elegantly wrought gate, guarded by severe-looking men in brocaded livery, Hadiza knew what she had learned before paled in comparison to what she now witnessed. The inner courtyard was desert gold, and date palms lined the the path leading toward a large fountain. The fountain itself was a marvel of wealth, with the holding pool shaped like a jasmine flower in bloom, and a rearing unicorn spouting water from its open mouth. She laughed, because she imagined briefly a unicorn vomiting. The house itself was crowned with an enormous blue dome that glittered in the sun like glass, and a spire tipped with a crescent moon.

“So tell me, Daughter of a Daughter,” the young man said as they walked the pathway toward the house, “what brings you to Rivain? You are so far from home…”

Hadiza, caught up in the fragrant beauty of the place, answered thoughtlessly. “I seek my family. Or rather, my mother’s family.”

The young man blinked. “Oh? And where are they?”

Hadiza turned her gaze to him. “I was hoping you could tell me. She was a scion of House Fayé after all.”

When they reached the door, the young man turned to her. “Not I,” he said, “but perhaps my uncle can answer that.”

Something about his smile made Hadiza uneasy, but she nodded slowly, loathe to let even the slightest chance slip through her grasp. So she let him lead her inside, where it was significantly cooler. The floors were of polished marble from Tevinter, but she noted that the structure of the house was very open-aired, allowing breeze to pass through in a calming crosswind at certain places. She had become so accustomed to the high and unreachable windows of the homes and castles of southern Thedas that to see curtains from windows billowing gently in the warm breeze was astonishing to her. The place was one that clearly evoked calm and relaxation for all that passed through its pristine halls, and yet Hadiza could not have felt more fraught with uncertainty.

They passed through another set of doors guarded by men who stood guard with partisan pole-arms, wearing black and gold, and looking firmly ahead without so much as a glance in her direction. The doors opened into an enormous circular chamber, bathed in diluted blue light. That must have been the dome she’d seen earlier. There were people gathered within, all dressed in black and gold, but there were two figures dressed in white.

As they came to stand before these two figures, Hadiza noted with alarm and excitement that all of them had the same silver eyes she did…as her mother did. The young man bowed low before the two white-clad figures—a man and woman respectively—and then came to stand beside another young man who was virtually his mirror…his identical twin.

Hadiza was left standing alone before the man and women dressed in white and gold. The woman’s face was impassive, but there was a softness in her gaze that gave Hadiza some comfort, but the man’s expression was hard and unwelcoming, and his pale eyes were encroached upon by blue, his pupils small, giving him an eerie appearance. Hadiza stood straight-backed and proud, attempting to draw strength from her own legacy, and from the instructions her mother left her.

“Well,” the man said, and his voice was rough-edged and deep, heavily accented but understandable, “you come to us in our time of peace while the south tears its own throat out. You are the Herald of Andraste—the pale bitch whose zealots slaughtered our sons and daughters in the name of their foolish and misguided faith. You are the Inquisitor. Do you bring the Chantry’s forces on your heels? Have they finally decided to come and attempt to finish what they began? Was the annulment not enough for them?”

The woman rested a hand on the man’s arm and Hadiza watched as his anger, which had been stoked by a steadily rising flame, quelled somewhat, banked in his pale eyes. Hadiza spread her hands, palm-up, in the gesture of surrender and peace.

“I have not come here in the capacity of Inquisitor, nor have I ever claimed to be a herald of anyone, least of all Andraste. I came seeking my mother’s family. The scions of House Fayé.”

She felt a dozen eyes on her, felt the man’s curiosity licking at his mind like flames.

“And who is your mother? Why have we never seen you?” He demanded.

Hadiza smiled sadly. “Because had you seen me before this moment, ser, you would have killed me. My mother was known to the south as Evangeline Trevelyan, but before that, she was Maribasse Fayé, a warrior and scion of this House.”

It was as if a storm had come, and the torrential downpour unleashed in the wake of her words was a hurricane. It began as a collective gasp, and then a cacophony of murmurs that were equal parts scandalized and equal parts excited. Hadiza saw the generation gaps clearly in this moment. The younger members were unsure of the name, but the older ones…they remembered. They knew who Maribasse was and what she had done to get herself disowned. The man seemed to grow in height, and he came to stand at the edge of the raised dais, towering over Hadiza.

“Who are you to come here, hand-in-hand with the accursed Chantry, and speak a name that is anathema in this house?” He demanded. Hadiza stood her ground, as her mother had told her to in the journal.

“I am Hadiza Trevelyan,” she said with a boldness she did not feel, “daughter of Maribasse Fayé and Edward Trevelyan. I bear the stamp of House Fayé in flesh and magic, and I come claiming the Right of Inheritance. You cannot gainsay me in this.”

The silence was tense, thick and heavy like a bog, and Hadiza struggled to keep her breathing even, to keep her face fearless. She imagined staring down a dragon, staring down Corypheus, and it helped, but not by much. Staring down her uncle was so much worse. The silence shattered as a clay pot shattered outside, and there was a commotion out in the courtyard.

And the clash of steel.

Her uncle seemed torn between wanting to deny her, and needing to tend to the unrest on his doorstep. After a moment, he let out a frustrated shout, barking orders. The House mobilized, young mages heading toward the courtyard to aid the guards.

Hadiza followed, relieved and angry that she had not had to see the end of her life in this place.

Once she reached the courtyard, however, she was appalled to find it in chaos.

“Kill them!” The patriarch shouted, “The Inquisitor has brought agents! Kill them all!”

Hadiza’s shout of protest was lost in the chaos that followed. She saw a flash of red, a flash of silver, and magic arcing this way and that, dispelled by the spell Samson had erected around himself and the rest of his companions.

Five guards were dead around him, broken and bloodied by his silverite sword, _Redemption_.

Hadiza tried to make her way to him, but found herself caught up in a dozen restraints from head to toe as a glyph of paralysis held her in rigid check. Trapped, she watched as Samson fought, and her friends attempted to maintain the defensive despite the order for them to be killed. Hadiza shouted, but her words died within the borders of the glyph, unable to be carried further. Samson saw her from across the courtyard, saw her trapped atop the massive glyph, and began to make his way toward her. Hadiza had forgotten, in all this time, why he had been singularly difficult to defeat in battle. Samson was the vanguard of a violent storm. He was wind and sea and hail, cutting a swathe with nullifying magic and sword alike, making his way to her. Hadiza wanted so badly for him to succeed, but she knew sheer numbers would overwhelm her friends soon enough.

So when the arrow took him in the shoulder, she should not have been so shocked. The shaft buried deep, and slowed him.

Another arrow.

Samson dropped to one knee, visibly anguished. Hadiza screamed, pounding against the invisible barrier of the prison she was trapped in.

 _Say it._ The demon’s voice swelled within her, filling her with heat, riding her fury and hysteria like an untamed mount. It clung to the darkest parts of her, and Hadiza knew if she did nothing, she would watch Samson die right in front of her.

“Yes!” Hadiza shouted into the prison. “Just save him! Save my friends! Please!”

_Done._

And all at once, the glyph beneath her feet shattered. Hadiza felt something in her she could not describe. It was heat and poison, a flood in the pipes of her veins, threatening to burst. Seven eyes opened wide, and she felt herself receding, felt the red veins curling around her body, possessive and constricting, choking her, _silencing_ her.

The pride demon that called itself Sethius turned her head, looked around with her eyes, and smiled with her mouth.

Power welled within her body, and Hadiza watched as if she were watching a nightmare. The demon left out an energy barrage the likes of which she had never seen, the likes of which she herself had never been capable of. And then it went to Samson, kneeling by his side where he struggled to breathe.

“Oh, _Samson_.” The demon said with her voice, touching his face with her hands, in a mockery of a caress. “She loves you too well to let you perish like the snarling hound you are.” Her hands wrapped around the shaft of an arrow, snapped it in two. Without much care, she tore them out.

Samson cried out, and blood gushed from the wounds. The demon laid Hadiza’s hands over the ravaged flesh and smiled. Hadiza knew what Samson saw. Fanged mouth, a forked tongue.

“When I am done saving you all, I will lay House Fayé low before my feet, and raise Zazzau to naught but ash and dust to be dashed away in the next breeze.” She healed one wound. “But you, Samson, I will keep. If for nothing else than to see her mewling and whimpering for mercy when I see and experience what she does in your worthless hide.”

Samson tried to snarl, found no quarter or strength to muster anything more than a slight curl of his lip.

“I’ll kill you…” He gurgled as the demon prodded the other wound with a clawed finger, making him cry out, “…fucking…abomination…”

The demon healed him only after he went unconscious.

Hadiza, from her mind’s own prison, felt no relief and knew only the perfect, symmetrical blankness of utter despair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave your feelings in the comments.
> 
>  _Mai kyau-da yamma kada ka zo nan sau da yawa_ \- Good afternoon, do you come here often?  
>  _Ina tuba_ \- I'm sorry.
> 
> This story is going to get weirder in the next few chapters. If you're with me, keep going. If not, I don't really care. At this point I just want to finish writing this fic and extricate myself from this fuckass fandom.


	26. Anchor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I mean...the best I can do to describe what happens here is basically like _The Exorcist_...Lite. LOL

Always quarreling, these humans. They squabbled like dogs over meat-scraps and bones, gnawing and growling and circling one another in anticipation. She watched them unblinking, seven glassy eyes, tracking her jailers with the heightened awareness and focus of one used to being an apex predator. She tested her restraints, and the chains jangled in response, the heavy manacles inscribed with lyrium-infused runes suppressing her power. Around her, the glyph of binding glowed, containing her to the small space. Twice she had tested the glyph’s give, and twice it had nearly shocked her apart. So she waited, watching as they argued and deliberated.

“It’s too late to save her,” one of the mages said, and she smiled to see she wore a headdress that echoed the horns spiraling from her own head, “the demon has its hold on her, and she is lost. You know what must be done.”

“No!” The other mage cried, shaking his head, “We came here specifically to find a solution to this…can we at least not consider—“

“She gave into temptation, Dorian,” the false pride demon countered, “even if we could bring her back, who is to say she is not compromised?”

“I will decide that.” Another voice interjected. She looked up to see the woman in white, who met her gaze.

Slowly, oh so slowly, Hadiza’s lips twitched and lifted into a smile that was far too wide for her face, with large, serrated fangs. A forked tongue flickered from her mouth to stroke the length of her fanged smile and wet her blackened lips.

“Will you?” She asked. “I will consume her soul soon enough, and then I will wear this body until it dies.” She jerked against her restraints, ignoring the strain of her human shoulders. This body…it was already dying around her. She could feel the decay, could smell the mortality. But the power she wielded would dwarf the disappointment of an eventual death.

The woman in white was unmoved, and she inclined her head to both mages before walking forward.

“I see and respect your power, spirit,” she said in a soft and even tone, “but you must release this woman. For the good of the balance, and for her own health.”

“She begged me to take her,” the demon countered, “and I did, while she mewled for her beloved templar.” Seven eyes searched the room, blinking and crinkling with amusement, “how _is_ he, anyway? He took two arrows trying to reach her. I’d hate for something to have happened to him.”

The demon laughed, a sound that crawled into the skin, slithering along the pathways of the blood. It was a sound like needles, teeth, and the edges of serrated blades, and it saw the seer visibly flinch.

“I am giving you an opportunity to leave peacefully, spirit,” the seer said, still calm despite the sound, “I can extricate you whether you wish it or no. But it can be a gentle extrication if you agree to leave her in peace.”

The demon tilted Hadiza’s head, too far, beyond the angle her neck would stretch. The slits that passed for its nose flared, the seven eyes augmented with Hadiza’s two blinked, almost flirtatiously. The slash of a mouth was locked in a perpetual grin.

“You and I both know it for a lie, seeress,” the demon said sweetly, “I can taste the sin of your pride on my tongue. The young mage has fed me full to bursting with her own…but there is always room for dessert.”

“Can we destroy this loathsome creature and have done with it?” Vivienne demanded, “It is clear that Hadiza is lost to us. I see no trace of her in there.”

“Lady Fayé,” Dorian pleaded, “surely you can…pull the demon out? My knowledge of Rivaini magic is limited, loathe as I am to admit it. But seeing Hadiza like this is unsettling.”

The demon laughed again, this time reminiscent of a dry cough.

The seeress looked grim. “It will take time,” she said, “this spirit is a powerful one, and Hadiza is a powerful mage, though her potential has not been fully tapped. But I can extricate it…time, however, is against us.”

“Why is that?” Dorian asked, “The binds will hold, will they not? I’ve never seen such bindings before. They are very thorough.”

The seeress smiled sadly. “We have not had to use these bindings for some time. Here in House Fayé we train our mages against this sort of thing. The Circles of the Chantry would see a mage’s power limited, and thus, make them more susceptible to sinister unknown magics.”

“The Circles protect mages from this sort of thing,” Vivienne said forcefully, “it is why Harrowings are necessary.”

The seeress laughed drily. “A Harrowing pits a mage’s will against that of _one_ demon. But no two demons are alike, _masoyi na_. A mage may triumph over rage, but still give over to desire. A mage may triumph over pride, but still give way to fear or despair. Your Harrowings are controlled situations, where demons are released against the mages like animals from a menagerie. Here, we train them as if the Fade were as open as the jungle, filled with predator and prey alike.”

Vivienne was quiet for a time, eyes narrowing. She thought to speak further, but whatever hovered on the tip of her agile tongue was stymied by the demon’s mocking laughter.

“And yet…” It said, “For all your training, the Chantry managed to crush you beneath its boot heel for heresy.”

The seeress froze, shooting the demon a dark look. Hadiza’s warped face merely leered. She sat back on her heels, content in her prison.

“As I said,” the seeress said, never breaking the demon’s gaze, “time is against us. Do the spirit and Hadiza remain bonded for too long, then the possession will become permanent, and she will truly be lost to you. Come with me.” She turned, leaving the prison, Vivienne and Dorian in tow. The demon watched them go, unblinking, ignoring the sounds of anguish in its stolen skull, muffled as they were.

For now, it was simply a matter of time.

 

 

When he woke up, the sun had long since set and nightfall had deepened. Moonlight filtered through the lattice window by his bed, and Samson sat up, wincing. His shoulder was bandaged, and old blood seeped through in two places. He had taken two arrows, he’d remembered, trying to get to Hadiza before they killed her.

Hadiza…ah shit.

He remembered everything all at once, and he felt anger bloom in him, his chest hot with it, burning him from within to without. He was angry with himself and with _her_. How could she have done this? She who had been above reproach! She had crossed the one line he thought her incapable of crossing, and for what? Why?

Samson agonized for long minutes over Hadiza’s fate.

Who had struck the killing blow? Surely she must have been dead by now. How long had he been unconscious? Where was he?

“Oh good, you’re awake!” Dorian’s voice cut through his turmoil with the precision of a hammer and Samson looked toward the doorway, lit on either side by torches. He said nothing and Dorian’s smile faded.

“And your memory has returned as well,” he said almost sadly. Samson did not reply, moving to climb out of bed, mindful of his injuries. He made his way toward where he assumed the washroom was, and found himself glaring at his own reflection.

 _Why didn’t you just let me bleed out?_ He thought furiously. _Why didn’t you let me die so that you could live? Why do you have to be so Maker damned self-sacrificing? I’m not fuckin’ worth it._

After splashing his face with cold water and checking his dressings, he returned to find Dorian still waiting.

“Where is she?” Samson asked without preamble and Dorian’s hesitation told him too many things at once.

“Samson…” He began, “She’s…”

“If you say it, Vint, I’ll feed you your own damned teeth. Where is she?” Samson’s tone was dangerous enough that Dorian was put on guard.

“She’s alive.” Was all he said. Samson glanced around, looking for his clothes. His armor and sword were missing, no doubt confiscated due to his rather…forceful entry into the compound. Still, he had tried to be peaceful about the entire thing. They had no right to detain Hadiza the way they did.

“Take me to her.” Samson said and Dorian stood in the doorway, barring his way.

“I can’t do that, friend,” Dorian said sadly, “it’s a condition of our being allowed to seek help from the seers in this place. Because you killed four of their guardsmen.”

“I was defending myself!” Samson snarled. “Was I supposed to let them kill me?”

“Samson, I don’t like this anymore than you do, but…” Dorian glanced over his shoulder, then leaned in, “If I were you, I’d wait until your injuries were a little more healed before jumping back into the fray. Hadiza is alive. Be content with that.”

Samson wanted to rake his fingers through his hair, but lifting his arm was futile.

“Is she…? Dorian, tell me she didn’t…”

Dorian didn’t answer him and Samson felt something in him break, like ceramic on the marble floor. It was disappointment, heartbreak, and a profound and insurmountable sorrow at the knowledge of what had been done. For a moment, Dorian waited for his response, but Samson had none. Instead he turned and went to the window, attempting to cleanse himself with the jasmine-scented breeze wafting through the curtains. Dorian knew better than to disturb him, and instead, left to report his condition to the others.

 

House Fayé should have been celebrating the recent nuptials of one of its most prominent scions, and instead, both matriarch and patriarch had gathered the council, and their uninvited guests, to deliberate on this newest conundrum.

“She had no right to invoke the Inheritance!” Assane shouted, slamming his hands on the table of the council chamber, “How did she even know? I told you we should have gone through with Maribasse’s execution! She stole the armor and now she divulges secrets to her bastard children for them to come and claim birthrights they have no understanding of!”

His wife, the seer in white, looked upon him with infinite patience, her dark eyes keeping their own counsel before she sighed.

“Irrespective of what you think, dear husband,” she said, “the fact remains that the Right has been invoked before all assembled. We cannot gainsay it as per tradition.”

“She is not even in a position to go through with it!” Assane protested, “As we speak a demon gnaws away at her weak soul. Had we known Maribasse birthed such weak magelings I might have hunted her down myself!”

“That’s enough!” His wife snapped with a frown. “She has invoked the Right and as such, now falls under the aegis of House Fayé. It is not even for you to decide.”

Assane huffed but said nothing further. The seer turned to Hadiza’s companions, smiling warmly.

“I am Djeneba Fayé, Seeress of Zazzau and matriarch of House Fayé,” she said with an incline of her head, “do not mind my husband, Assane. His bark is far worse than his bite these days. Now, which one of you is the dreamer?”

Dorian and Vivienne glanced toward Feynriel, who shuffled forward, intimidated by the regal woman who sat before him. She studied him a moment, eyes narrowed.

“A male dreamer,” she mused, “fascinating. It is the women who develop such powers here in Rivain,” she beckoned him forward with a ring-bedecked hand, “but it is not unheard of for men to be given the gift every few generations or so. Tell me, child, how did you come by such power?”

Feynriel could smell the jasmine oil on her hands, standing closer, and he smiled nervously.

“Nightmares, I thought at first,” he explained, “but when I went to the Dalish for help, they told me I was…I had the power to shape dreams and the Fade as I saw fit. They call me a _somniari_ in Tevinter.”

Djeneba nodded sagely. “Yes, yes. Unlike the southerners, Tevinter still retains some of the old ways.” She winked at Dorian who smiled despite himself.

“My lady,” Feynriel said, “what of Hadiza? The demon…it is beyond my power to banish. I was barely able to restrain it long enough for us to make it here. Can she be saved at all?” Djeneba drummed her fingertips on the oakwood table, considering. She glanced around.

“Mm, yes. Hadiza can be saved, but it will be difficult. The demon has begun to plant roots in her body not unlike weeds in a garden. If we tarry too long, those roots will overgrow and poison her forever. She will be a prisoner in her own skin.” At Feynriel’s crestfallen expression she smiled warmly. “Do not fear, child. You did the best you could with what you had. There are very few places outside of Rivain that help to cultivate the power you wield. When this is over, would you perhaps wish to train here?”

Feynriel brightened at the notion. “Very much my lady!” He said excitedly, then blushed. “That is, if you would be willing to take me on as a student.”

Djeneba grinned, showing a gold tooth. “You have a good heart. I have no doubt we’ll make a powerful dreamer of you. Now, about this business of Hadiza…”

“You mentioned time being against us,” Vivienne said at last, “and we have spent a great deal wasting it talking here. You said you can save Hadiza. So exactly how are you planning to do it from behind that table?”

Djeneba’s eyelids flickered, but she gave nothing else away. “Your concern for your friend is duly noted, Madam Vivienne, but you and your companions forcefully entered our home, and the templar you brought with you has slain four of my guardsmen. We must deal with that ere we tend to Hadiza.”

“Just kill the damned templar and have done with it, ahbeg,” Assane hissed, “their kind is not welcome here, and no doubt he is scouting for the Chantry, to report back to their precious Divine to prepare for yet another March upon our homeland. Enough Rivaini blood has been spilled. Let the pale southerner answer for his crimes in blood.”

Dorian hesitated, looking decidedly distressed. Feynriel glanced around, wondering what would happen if he spoke out.

Vivienne frowned. “You may have to wait your turn, Lord Fayé,” she said coolly, “Samson has much to answer for, the least of which are the deaths of your guardsmen. Do you kill him, now, I can promise you that the moment Hadiza is freed, a great many more might die.” She allowed herself a smug smirk and Dorian’s eyes went wide with shock. It was not like Vivienne to make such a boast. But thinking of Hadiza, he wondered if it was a boast at all.

“So it is as I guessed, then,” Djeneba laughed, “very well. I will withhold sentencing for now. But the templar is confined to quarters until we rectify this…calamity you have brought upon our House.”

“That is fair.” Vivienne agreed, “Now, shall we get on with the business of saving my friend?”

Djeneba returned Vivienne’s smirk. “To business, then.”

Assane made a sound low in his throat that was clearly one of disapproval, but even he would not gainsay tradition, the very hallmark of his bloodline’s legacy.

Djeneba rose from her seat, coming around to stand before another elder, and bending low to speak with her. She smiled, before coming to Vivienne and Dorian once more, gesturing out the door.

“In the morning, we will free Hadiza from the shackles of her own making. Tonight, you will rest. I must inform the guardsmen’s families of their loss. And then I must speak with the templar.”

“Good luck,” Dorian huffed, “the man has become single-minded in his speech lately. I guess love truly makes some people foolish.”

Djeneba smiled. “Foolish, no. Determined…most assuredly. I will speak with him. No doubt his head is filled with Chantry prejudice regarding this situation.”

“On that we can agree.” Dorian said with a roll of his eyes.

 

 

Samson didn’t sleep. How could he? He’d been out since that afternoon, watching Hadiza’s face change before his eyes, his blood all over her hands and shirt, a forked tongue slithering out of her mouth. Maker! He still couldn’t believe it had happened…and right in front of him. He knew what had to be done. The order was clear on that, and it was the reason she’d chosen him to guard her so long ago. He shut his eyes, bowing his head.

 _Merciful fucking Andraste you’ve got a sense of humor,_ he thought bitterly, _you send me a ray of hope, give me a chance to do something right…and then I fuck it up again. I shouldn’t have let her use the diadem. I should have stopped her. Told her everything I knew. Had she not made the search for Corypheus, she’d be in bed right now, calling me back._

He had never hated the Chantry more than in that moment, because in that moment, the Chantry was _right_.

He needed his sword. He needed _Redemption_.

“Even I can see the conflict in you and I have only seen you from afar.” The voice was pitched low, but it was unnervingly calm, and Samson turned quickly, hissing and wincing as his wounds betrayed him. He watched as the woman in white made her way toward him.

“Who are you?” Samson demanded. The woman smiled, tilting her head, curiosity alight in her eyes.

“I merely wished to look upon the architect of the chaos wreaked upon my House this very day,” she said softly, amused, “and to take measure of the man that my niece saw fit to merge with a demon for.”

Samson found words but they died stillborn on the tip of his tongue. Was his life to be a never-ending series of people judging him and finding him worthless?

 _Well_ , he thought, _they aren’t entirely wrong_.

“Your eyes aren’t silver,” he noted absently, “like the others.”

“Observant, at least,” she laughed, “no, I married into House Fayé, but my children have inherited the stamp of that lineage. It is how I knew Hadiza spoke the truth.”

Samson tried not to stir at the mention of the name. “And now she’s gone.”

“No,” the woman said, “she can be saved. I merely wished to—“

“Judge me and see if I’m worthy of her.” Samson finished with a sneer. “Get in line, miss. There’s an angry father in Ostwick whose already done the same.”

She laughed at him, making him angry, but he said nothing.

“Well, you came here with her despite it all,” she mused, “so I would say you don’t particularly give any kind of damn what her father thinks, hm?”

Samson couldn’t help it: he smiled. His grin was toothy and rakish, and he thought of the first night they went to the Trevelyan Estate, how Hadiza had cowed her father with her cleverness, and how Samson had ridden her hard for want of her, and from watching her spit in the face of decorum for his sake. He knew she risked her reputation and good standing with him, but he allowed himself to be selfish and proud that night. The thought of her smile, her laughter, and the weight of her in his arms was enough to get him angry at the present again, and the woman in white saw it.

“Your friend tell me you have many crimes to answer for,” she said thoughtfully, considering his expression, “not including the murder of my guardsmen this very afternoon. But that is not the only reason I have come to you, templar.”

Samson winced. So here it was, then.

“I am going to ask you a question,” she said gently, “and I want you to answer honestly. Can you do that?”

“No merit in lying, my lady.” Samson said gruffly. She nodded, but did not smile.

“Hadiza is the Inquisitor, and you are a templar. You and I both know what the Inquisition symbolizes. Please, for the sake of my family, answer honestly: are you all here on behalf of the Chantry?”

Samson was quiet a moment, studying the woman’s face. He couldn’t place her age, but he wagered she was older than he was at least.

“They didn’t tell you what my crimes were, then.” He stated, and at her furrowed brow, he chuckled. “Of course they’d leave me to explain it myself.”

He crossed his arms, sighing. “I’m not here on behalf of the Chantry, and neither is Hadiza. That’s the last entity I’d ever represent.” He said simply. The older woman nodded, seemingly content with his answer.

“I see. Then if you die tomorrow I will not see the gleaming armor of a legion of templars marching toward my beloved city, then?”

Samson laughed. “Not for war, my lady. I wager you’d be hailed as a hero and go down in history as the one person who did what the Inquisitor could not.”

Her brows went up in surprise. “You speak low of yourself. Of what crimes do you stand so accused that your brethren would celebrate your demise?”

Samson shrugged. “I tried to burn the world down, starting with the Chantry.”

He smiled as she backed away, visibly surprised and disturbed, and left the room, the key turning in the lock with such abrupt finality that Samson laughed despite it all.

 

 

Morning brought tension and uncertainty.

Vivienne, Dorian, Aja, and Feynriel opted to take breakfast with Samson in his quarters which doubled as his cell. To Samson, it was perhaps the nicest prison he’d ever been confined to, and he appreciated the consideration.

“So,” he said, “how deep in the shit am I? The headsman grinding an ax? The gallows being set up in the square?”

No one laughed, and Vivienne cast him a disgusted look.

“Look,” he said in his defense though no one had accused him of anything, “I always knew I’d die one day, be it at the hands of the Inquisition or some lucky assassin.”

“You’re not dying today.” Dorian said cheerfully, “But I appreciate your dedication to self-deprecation first thing in the morning. I’m afraid you’re just going to have to keep on living, Samson, as much as it may pain you.”

Feynriel ate heartily. “What is this?” He asked between mouthfuls, “It’s absolutely delicious.”

Vivienne’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “Feynriel, just because we are in a foreign country does not mean one forgets their manners. Swallow before speaking, if you please.” She chided and Feynriel’s cheeks went rosy with embarrassment.

“My apologies, ma’am.” He said after he’d swallowed. “I was excited is all.”

They ate in silence, and for a while, no one said anything. Aja, who had not spoken since the day prior, drank down the bitter drink made from the strange black beans, and set it down.

“Well.” She said blithely, “I’m ready, how about you all?”

Vivienne’s expression cracked to reveal one of sympathy, and Dorian sighed, trying to focus on anything but Aja’s face.

“Don’t look at me like that.” She snapped, getting up angrily, “Hadiza is going to be fine. She always is. The seer will zap her or whatever the fuck it is seers do, and she’ll be fine. Good as new, maybe even better.”

Silence answered her and she bit back a variety of creative curses to fling at them, and instead took a deep breath, exhaling before storming out of the room.

“We should finish up,” Vivienne said in an rare display of vulnerability, “if we are to have any chance of saving her, we need to be there to ensure nothing goes wrong.”

“How would we know?” Feynriel asked. “None of us knows how that kind of magic even works. How would we know if anything goes wrong?”

“Well I imagine there would be a great deal more bedlam if it ended in failure,” Dorian said dryly, “but still, Madame Vivienne is right. Aside, I am fascinated by this…art of possession these seers practice. What must that be like, I wonder.”

Samson snorted. “Don’t go getting any bright ideas, Vint,” he muttered, “tampering with untried and forbidden magic is why we’re here now.”

Vivienne smiled, finishing her tea, leaving the dregs as was customary, “No,” she murmured, “I imagine we might have wound up here sooner or later.”

To that, no one had an answer.

 

 

Hadiza had learned, in the short time since giving up her agency, how to read the demon’s levels of strength. It was strong, having gorged itself on her pride and shame alike, and she wagered that its strength could be depleted much like her own had been. She sat, rooted—quite literally—to the Inquisition throne, bound in red veins. They grew around and through her legs, along her arms. She was as much apart of them as they were apart of her.

They were the source of her own hubris, after all.

But as Hadiza moved, she felt something give way. One of the roots loosened, allowing her movement in her arms, and then her legs. She began to realize as she extricated herself from the throne, that the demon was asleep.

Slowly, so slowly, Hadiza regained temporary control of her body. She opened her eyes, she turned her head, wiggled her fingers. She had only two eyes, her nails weren’t claws, and the weight of horns no longer crowned her head. Carefully, she took stock of her surroundings. The preternatural glow of a paralyzing glyph was her only source of light, and she could make out the deeper darkness of the prison’s doorway, and then she looked down.

The manacles on her arms were heavy, and etched into the dense metal was lyrium crystal in the shape of runes, many of which she did not recognize. When she reached for her magic the lyrium flared, draining her instantly.

“But how…?” She whispered, “There’s no way this should even be possible…”

The door to her cell opened and in filed the woman in white—the matriarch—tall and cool and impassive as she had been in the council chamber. Then came Vivienne, Dorian, Aja, and Feynriel.

Samson.

Hadiza did not look at him, lowering her eyes as her face burned with the shame of what she’d done. And as she stole a furtive glance upward, she saw that he avoided her gaze as well.

“Hadiza Trevelyan.” The seeress spoke and her voice carried and seemed to fill the room with power. Hadiza looked up, meeting her eyes, “I am here to free you of the shackles of your own making.”

Hadiza felt a glimmer of hope take root in her, felt it sprout and grow even as she felt the burgeoning presence of _something_ rousing within her. The demon was waking up, slowly, groggily, but soon she would be gone again and pride would stare this wise seeress in the face and snarl.

“Please…” Hadiza whispered, “Before it comes back. I’m not strong enough to beat it.”

She saw Samson’s lip curl at her words and felt hot tears of shame burn in her eyes. The seeress’ eyes were weary with the weight of her sympathy, but she closed them. Hadiza felt the demon rising, like a flood inside of her body, hot and cloying, the acrid taste of something foul beginning to fill her mouth.

“Please…” She eked out desperately as her tongue began to split in two, her teeth sharpening to points, and her skull feeling split in two as seven eyes began to open.

The seeress began to chant. Hadiza understood the language, but the others did not. She heard words strung together, but her mind was being encroached upon too fast, and too forcefully. She tried to focus, but she felt as if her vision was receding, weakening as the demon flexed its claws that were once her hands, and her head was heavy with the weight of pride’s only crown.

“Maker’s shitting breath…” Samson breathed in disbelief as he watched Hadiza’s body turn before his eyes.

The seer’s words bound Hadiza up, and she was caught between the boundaries of her will and the demon’s will, much to the demon’s confusion.

“What is this?” It demanded, “What have you done to me, you dreaming bitch?!”

She strained against her chains, which were pulled taut as she edged closer to the border of the glyph’s power.

The seeress said nothing, and went on chanting. The demon and Hadiza cried out, while she felt herself both fading from her body and coming back to herself, and then held in rigid check as the demon sought to regain control.

“You!” The demon cried, looking at Samson with a warped face, “I saved your worthless life from certain death! And you would let her do this?! Your loyalty is as flexible as this bitch you’ve been fucking for the last year!”

Samson’s jaw set and he narrowed his eyes, but said nothing in response. The demon surged forward again, brought up short by the chains, the lyrium runes flaring brightly to suppress its power.

“If you let this happen you’ll never taste her cunt again, _Samson_.” It taunted, “The only woman who ever thought you were worth the time it took for you to pull your fucking cock out.” The demon’s tongue traced its lips and teeth, obscene and profane.

The seeress went on chanting, and the glyph flared along the floor, bringing Hadiza into an obeisant prostration, her forehead striking the floor as she was forced downward.

“Samson!” The seeress cried, “On my signal, I need you to cast a holy smite!”

Samson stirred, surprised. “What?”

“Just do as I say!” She snapped and went back to chanting.

Hadiza’s head turned at an awkward angle, and seven eyes blazed in fury.

“I would have fucked you better than she did, Samson…” It growled in that eerie, twinned voice. “I would have raised you up beyond reproach where she lacked the spine to do so!”

Samson did not answer, did not wanted to entertain the thought of answering the obscenities the demon spat in Hadiza’s voice.

He felt the power surge through the room, and the seeress let out a cry. All at once, the demon roared, Hadiza’s shoulders wrenched hard against the might of her restraints. Her jaw seemed unhinged as she rose up on her knees, doubling over. Black bile poured from her mouth in great heaves, as if she had swallowed blood and ink mingled at once, viscous and putrid. She heaved, and with each wretch the warp of her body seemed to fade.

“Get ready, Samson!” The seeress cried and Samson drew on all the lyrium in his blood.

“I think we should step outside, now,” Dorian warned, “the last time I deigned to stay for this part, I was sick for an hour.” This time, Vivienne did not protest and she let herself and Feynriel be ushered out of the room.

Samson struggled to leash all of his power as Hadiza wretched up the corruption in her body, poisoning the glyph, which began to flicker from it. She was on her hands and knees, slippery with the bile she’d heaved up, and she looked up, her lips and chin stained with it, her eyes wide, pupils dwindling to fine points, until the silver mingled with the eerie green and violet of the demon’s eyes. For a moment, her mouth worked, trying to speak.

Then she leaned over and heaved again, black liquid splashing on the floor.

“Now, templar!” The seeress cried. Samson didn’t hesitate, and released the tight, hot fist of power he’d held clenched within himself. Hadiza flattened onto the floor, limp and unconscious, and all the magic in the room seemed to be sucked away. Samson caught the seeress—Djeneba—before she fell, clutching her chest.

“It is as the legends say…” She murmured, breathless with shock, “You templars wield a terrible magic against us…”

Samson smiled grimly. “The Chantry tells us it’s to keep the world safe from mages…to protect the world from them, and to protect them from…things like that.” He motioned toward Hadiza’s unconscious body. Djeneba nodded.

“Is she…?” Samson wondered and she passed her hands over her face.

“The demon is weakened significantly, but not extricated,” she explained, “there is no way to do that without first entering the dreamscape.”

“You mean go into the Fade.” Samson stated flatly. Djeneba nodded.

“Feynriel could—“

“No,” Djeneba said quickly. “The boy is too unlearned in his power. He will not know how to do it safely. And he too could fall prey to this powerful spirit. Someone with a stronger mental fortitude must go.”

Samson thought of Vivienne. “She could do it. Vivienne. If there’s anyone with mental fortitude, it’s her.”

Djeneba smiled. “Even now you run from duty. No, templar, it cannot be a mage.”

Samson froze. “What?” The word was barely a whisper, incredulous and apprehensive all in the same turn. Djeneba’s smile grew wider, but her eyes were pitiless.

“No more running. It must be you, ser templar. No one else is suited to this particular task, and especially not for this particular individual.”

“But templars can’t…” Samson began helplessly, “I’ve never even…how in the Void am I supposed to even get in there?”

Djeneba motioned for him to carry Hadiza, which he did, noting how much smaller she looked without the demon’s influence.

“There is a ritual for that as well,” she said, “and it will require more mages to do so, and your trust and consent.”

Samson stared down at Hadiza’s slack face, and steeled his resolve. Then, he looked up to meet Djeneba’s steady gaze.

“How soon can it be done?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _masoyi na_ \- 'my dear'
> 
> Leave feelings in the comments. <3


	27. Inheritance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exorcism, carnage, revelations, challenges.

Twenty-two years he’d served the Order. He had gone through the grueling physical training, a scrawny boy from an outlying farm who’d been used to swinging shovels and hatchets than a real sword. He’d suffered the brow-beating of the trainers, the mental breakdowns each day until the Chantry had cleansed Raleigh from the mind. Samson had endured the endless hours of study, learning to read and write the way proper lordlings did. His parents had always wanted the Chantry to take him in, citing it was the easiest way to get an education at no cost.

But there was a cost, and when they handed him his first dose of lyrium, Samson had not known just how much he was giving up for the comforts of education, a roof over his head, a warm bed, and three square meals a day. He knelt in prayer, received the benediction of oil upon his brow, and downed the burning ice of lyrium in one go. The effects had been immediate, and his entire life changed.

Templars trained for years master elite fighting styles capable of felling demons and mages alike. They trained with the sword and shield until both were merely extensions of their arms, until the heavy plate armor was weightless, until they could no longer remember what life had been before patrols, training, and study. Samson had endured all of that, had done it out of faith and passion both. He felt, for the first time in his life, apart of something greater than himself, serving a cause mightier than his mortal mind could truly process.

But one thing templars never did was enter the Fade.

Samson sat at Hadiza’s bedside in pensive silence, monitoring her breathing, noting the receding of the red veins that had consumed nearly her entire arm. He watched as she lay in absolute stillness, and had he not known to look, he would have sworn she was dead.

If he did not get on with it, she might very well be.

Heaving a great sigh of resignation, Samson passed his weathered hands over his face.

“If we really want to argue semantics,” he said aloud, “it’s my own damned fault for letting you take him on alone. You trusted me to do one thing and I hesitated.” Samson’s hand found Hadiza’s, and he was relieved that it was still warm.

“Now I’ve gotta get in there and find you. But…we have got to talk when this is over.” He thought of Hadiza’s body shifting, of the seven eyes that watched him with a quiet and unnerving intensity, limning him in an air of assessment that made him feel as if he were meat hanging in a butcher’s shop.

Djeneba and Feynriel came to him at dusk.

“So, Seeress,” Samson said without looking up, “how do we get me into the Fade? And explain to me why it’s gotta be me and not someone more…mage-like?”

Djeneba came to stand beside him, looking down at Hadiza, her expression sad.

“The demon will try and offer you what you want most,” she explained and Samson snorted.

“I know that,” he said, “everyone knows that. I’m trained to make sure you mages don’t fucking take that offering.” He didn’t mean to sound bitter but there it was. He sighed. “I’m sorry, I just…why me?”

“What do you want, Ser Samson?” Djeneba asked him and Samson hesitated. He thought on the question and realized in a moment of surprise that no one had truly asked him that before, not even Hadiza. What did he want? What could a man like him possibly want in this world that he deserved?

“I…” He closed his teeth on the next words, looking down at his hands. He wished he could turn back time, but he knew there was no demon capable of such a feat, and the only being who could remotely accomplish that was dead a year gone-by. He wanted nothing, he realized. Not even a do-over on his miserable life. He thought of what would happen if he chose differently; if he had rejected the Chantry’s teachings and embraced the simple life of a farmer’s son. He would tend to his crops and cattle without qualm, never letting his mind wander beyond the borders of his small village. He would be far removed from the conflict of mages and templars, and would never know the gleaming edge of a sword, the strain of a shield on his arm. He would hear of the Inquisitor’s deeds from afar as she marched on her enemies, stitching the torn tapestry of southern Thedas back together piece by piece.

He would have never met her, and Samson wondered briefly what that would have been like.

 _A great deal less exciting, that’s for sure._ He thought wryly.

And he realized, in that moment, that even though his life could be surmised in a series of increasingly unforgivable mistakes, love had found him regardless. Whatever darkness lingered in his heart could be beaten back by the smallest illumination, and it was. Love had found him, compassion, the capacity for remorse and regret.

The chance to atone for his crimes with no possibility that anyone would ever accept it.

And he would not have changed any of this for a quiet life. For all the bad he’d done, there were mages free across Thedas thanks in no small part to his own desire to see them safely from the Gallows. Feynriel himself was one of them, and had Samson chosen differently, Feynriel would not have dreamed so powerfully, and Hadiza may very well have been lost.

No, he would not change any of it for all the world.

“I want nothing,” he told Djeneba, lifting his head to look up at her, “save to see her safely back to the realm of the waking.” At this, Djeneba’s smile was a slow thing, curling her mouth at the corners as she inclined her head in a gesture of deep respect. Samson took it as a good a sign as any that he had done something right in his life for once.

“Then you have your answer,” Djeneba said, and nodded toward Feynriel, “the young dreamer shall be the conduit between yourself and the Fade. I will cast the spell that will put you under, and young Feynriel will draw you into the Fade to help you find Hadiza.”

“And the demon?” Samson asked pragmatically. Djeneba smiled wider.

“You are a templar, are you not?”

To that, Samson laughed. A fair point.

 

Being put to sleep was not as uncomfortable as he thought it would be. He lay beside Hadiza, and it was perhaps the strangest part of the ritual. He had become so accustomed to laying with her in more intimate ways, of wrapping his arms around her, sliding his hands along her skin, breathing in the scent of her hair. This…he felt like he was laying next to a corpse and he was next to have his soul taken.

“Try to think of nothing,” Feynriel supplied, “it makes it easier for me to shape the Fade when you keep your mind clear.”

Samson grunted. “Will do.” He replied, “Just get me in there so we can slay this demon, already.” He didn’t open his eyes, trying to remember the exercises he used when he truly had been a templar, seeking to clear his mind and allow only the lyrium’s song to thrum through his skull. And unbidden, the Chant of Light came to mind, an old and familiar security, helping to clear his head and steady his heart.

_Maker, my enemies are abundant._

_Many are those who rise up against me._

_But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,_

_Should they set themselves against me._

He felt the Chant, so familiar and fiery in his blood, felt the stirring of something in his soul he’d thought long dead. The voice of the Seeress was muffled, fading into the warm darkness he descended to, and he felt himself pulled across an unfathomable divide, falling and falling, tumbling and then there was a dizzying feeling as he landed, not hard, but gently, suddenly rising to his feet.

All around his was a world tinged a sickly green colored. Rocks floating, shattered and blackened, and an endless expanse of a verdant abyss that was at once mist and clouds and fog. He felt his senses dulled in this place, his hearing stymied and muffled, and even his breathing felt wrong. For a moment he was disoriented, wondering what had gone wrong, and so he did the first thing that came to mind: he took stock of his surroundings. Turning in a slow circuit, Samson saw no familiar landmarks, only the hazy green mist and clouds, pathways that led nowhere, and ruins that did not stir any memory in him. In the distance, in the sky, floating amidst the muted light that was no sun, was the silhouette of what looked to be a city of some sort…or a castle.

He knew where he was, and immediately went for weapons that weren’t there.

“It’s a bit unsettling at first,” Feynriel’s voice suddenly emerged next to him and Samson nearly leapt from his skin in shock, tensing like a cat poised to strike as Feynriel came to stand beside him. “I don’t think any templar has been in the Fade before. Not in living memory, anyway. At least you’re making history.”

Samson frowned. “Yeah, they’ll be talking about me for ages, the templar who went into the Fade. Just…how do we find Hadiza?” He asked irritably. Feynriel pointed.

“We don’t have to.” He said and Samson followed his gaze to the distance. He squinted, rubbed his eyes to make sure he was seeing right.

“Is that…Skyhold?” He asked, not quite believing it. “How’d you…?”

Feynriel began to walk. “She and I constructed it, together. In Tevinter, they teach us to create an anchor point in the Fade…a sort of reference point. It is easy to get lost in infinity, you know. When Hadiza and I first came here, I helped her create a point of reference, somewhere she could always go when drawn here.”

Samson marveled at the strangeness of the place. It was in no way familiar to him, and the only recognizable structure was the construct of Skyhold ahead, which loomed larger as they walked on.

“And that place, over there,” Samson said gesturing to the silhouette along the sky, “the Black City?”

“Yes.” Feynriel answered quickly, “She said it was much closer in the physical Fade. Also everything was wet.”

Samson laughed humorlessly. “I imagine it was no less strange.” And he remembered glimpsing the Fade through the Breach, the silhouettes of innumerable demons of all types, some as yet unnamed or unseen by man, crowding the edge, longing to come through to the physical world. He remembered almost losing Hadiza to temptation then, too. Too often he had been reminded of the dangers of loving a mage, but so too did he remember how the positives far outweighed the negatives. She had saved a great many lives with her magic, pouring her heart and soul into the wounded. He remembered watching as she patrolled the infirmary, offering kind words to those who could not speak, administering comfort and aid to the dying.

Mourning the dead with the quiet dignity of the Inquisitor.

He remembered helping her gather precious and rare herbs in the valley before the summer’s end, helping her mix the alchemical ingredients needed to ease the pain of moon cycles, or wounds as yet unhealed, and even for the rare instances of childbirth. He remembered her offering to help see to his armor, to enlist her sister to help mend his clothes, and the dark shadows of exhaustion under her eyes when they prepared for an expedition that would take them far from Skyhold for many weeks.

He remembered waiting for her when she traveled alone, filling the gaps her presence left with quiet introspection, hovering on the boundaries of the Chantry like some skulking eidolon, at war with his own faith and with his own truth.

Maker, but he loved her. Even in her ultimate transgression he could not find it in his heart to forsake her. Not after everything they had endured in the past year and a half.

She had been by his side when he was mad with fever, curled in on himself like a newborn, the angry spear of withdrawal piercing his bowels. She had pressed her cool hands and a wet cloth to his forehead, and she had recited the damnable Chant of all things. And he had taken comfort in it. When the worst of the ravages had past, she had been there, tireless and vigilant despite the protests of her companions to administer aid to he who deserved it least.

In those days, she had done no more than any other healer would do. And in those days he had longed for one—just one!—touch of her soft lips to his brow.

No, she had made a mistake, a mistake to save his life, and yet…and yet…all that he had been brought up to believe marked it as an unforgivable sin. She was tainted by this transgression, and the trust between them was fractured but not entirely broken.

“You’re going to attract all manner of trouble keeping yourself all wound up like that,” Feynriel admonished, “just focus on the task at hand. Try to keep yourself steady and clear of any extra emotions.”

Samson nodded, trying to banish the dangerous secondary voice that told him to forsake her.

When they passed into Skyhold’s courtyard, Samson was taken aback by how eerie it was within. The courtyard was empty, void of even ghosts or wisps of life. Whatever replica of the keep Hadiza and Feynriel constructed, did not include any denizens. The silence seemed absolute, and Samson noted belatedly that sound did not travel far in the Fade. And he was reminded, walking abreast of Feynriel, of how little the Chantry knew of magic…how little any of them knew.

“Just like the tales of my childhood,” Feynriel said brightly, “the dashing knight going to rescue the distressed damsel.”

Samson chuckled. “I’m no dashing knight, and Hadiza is far from distressed. If the demon is as weak as the seer says, I wager Hadiza’s got it by the throat by now and is feeding it its own fingers.”

Feynriel blanched a little at that. “That’s a bit barbaric for her, isn’t it?” He mused as they ascended the steps toward the keep’s main door.

“You clearly don’t know Hadiza very well.” Samson laughed, reaching to pull open both doors, “She’ll be gloating over its corpse by the time we—“

The stench hit him like a slap to the face and he grit his teeth against the assault.

“Maker’s shitting breath what is that?” He demanded, covering his nose. Feynriel leaned over to wretch as Samson managed to get his bearings. He adjusted easily to the putrid stench, having smelled similar, if not worse, things in Kirkwall. There were splatters of viscous blood everywhere, claw marks and the marks of an edged weapon along the wood and stone, the stigmata of a warring pair of gods. Samson saw that the chandelier that had been the centerpiece of the main hall, was askew, hanging dangerously low on a frayed cord. And here and there, coagulated blood with bits of eerie-looking viscera stewing within it.

“What happened here?” Feynriel asked, his voice hoarse as he heaved again, dry and emptied. “Maker, that _stench_ …!”

Samson’s expression was grim as he made his way further into the keep. He saw evidence of a true battle here. The dismembered arm of a fear demon lay broken along the steps of the dais leading to the Inquisition throne which was oddly free of blood spatter and viscera. He saw the twisted and burned corpse of a despair demon in the far corner near the undercroft’s door, and scorch marks along the wall that was a telltale sign that someone had been chasing it.

The stench of dead demon flesh, scorched demon flesh, and the telltale smell of ozone mingled in the air. Samson searched but was relieved that none of the blood was bright crimson, and none of the bodies or dismembered parts belonged to a human.

He made his way into the side door leading toward the war room, and he heard the clash and scrape of steel against stone, as well as a loud shout of anguish and anger alike. Samson bolted toward the war room’s splintered door, catching glimpses of a swift-moving figure bathed in blue light, followed by a brilliant flash as lightning struck.

He didn’t call her name, fearing the worst.

“Samson, wait!” Feynriel cried, “You’re unarmed!”

He didn’t care.

Samson made his way to the splintered door, pulling away weakened and severed chunks of the thick, heavy wood. The battle waged within was enough to give him pause.

Hadiza was a cornered wolf, quivering with the leashed and violent potential energy, holding her staff, tipped with a wicked, curved blade, angled in front of her. Two fear demons stepped into view. Samson watched her move, watched her Fade step in full, a blur of after images as she descended upon one demon, screaming savagely, blood caked in her teeth, pouring from one nostril, and staining her clothes. She hacked the demon until blood flew, until its screams of rage became screams of pain. She hacked and slashed and set herself aflame to burn the demon both.

Samson wondered how long she had been fighting.

The war table had been tossed to the far side of the room, broken and splintered into kindling, and Hadiza moved as she couldn’t in the waking world, with speed and precision, sweat slick on her face, mingling with her blood and the demon blood that covered her.

She stood over the remaining demon, eyes fever-bright, eager for blood, her blade poised to take its head.

For a moment, a split second even, Samson pitied the demon as Hadiza’s blade made short work of it.

“Hadiza!” He said at last, coming into the room, mindful of the floor, slippery with blood and viscera. Hadiza did not seem to hear him at first, but she could sense him, he knew, seeing the tension drawn taut in her body’s battle language, tight and ready. Her head was on the swivel, eyes darting, looking for more assailants.

“Hadiza.” Samson called, gentler this time, trying to call her back to herself. She whirled, bringing her staff to the ready, and Samson was reminded of a cornered animal forced to fight for its own life.

“It’s me.” He said gently, but she did not lower her guard, and instead seemed to sink further into that preparation to attack. Samson held up his hands.

“I’m not a demon,” he told her, “I swear on Andraste’s sacred ashes, I’m not. I came to find you. To bring you back.”

Hadiza did not answer, and instead, snapped her gaze to Feynriel, who immediately held up his hands, finding himself nearly skewered at the end of her blade.

“A despair demon took this same face,” she said at last, and her voice was limned in hysteria, “said it wasn’t a demon, said it missed me and wished to take me from this place.” Samson moved and Hadiza was quick to turn her blade on him, keeping him still.

“Then a fear demon took this face, said it was worried for my safety.”

Samson sighed, knowing what was happening. “And what of the pride demon? The one that possessed you?”

Hadiza hesitated, lifting her chin in defiance. “You speak as if you know me. Are you envy? Coming to try and steal my face from me? I have slain pride. Brought it low before my throne. Do not think I will not hesitate to do the same to its brutal and more sinister cousin.”

Feynriel held out his hands in a gesture of peace. “Inquisitor…Hadiza, please. You have to believe us. Your aunt sent us here to extricate you.” He glanced around, visibly ill from the carnage around him, “If you stay here too long, your body…”

Hadiza hesitated, twitching like she would attack any moment. “If I stay too long here my body will die. But if I kill this one,” she gestured to Samson, “what happens?”

“Hadiza,” Samson said, “as far as I know, no templar’s been in the Fade before…not like this. Do you really want to risk it?”

She glared at him, eyes still wild, but the air of violence that curled around her seemed calmer somehow.

“Tell me a secret,” she said to him, “tell me a secret only he would know.”

Samson hesitated. “You know that’s not really reliable…”

Hadiza’s grip on her staff tightened and she stepped within range to press the blade close. “Tell me!” She shouted, and there was something raw in her voice; a commingling of shame and desperation, “Something about himself a demon could not possibly know.”

Samson kept his hands up and for a moment it seemed as if he would give in and let her kill him, but he met her gaze, steady and calm.

“Alright,” he said, “you remember when you asked me the other night many weeks ago why the civilians? Why did I choose innocent people to die for my cause?”

Hadiza’s eyes narrowed. “Yes.” She said, but kept her blade pressed close, allowing him no quarter. Samson felt something in his chest break open before he began to speak. He had wanted to tell her in a place of safety, but circumstances had shifted so drastically he was left with little choice.

This was his confession.

“The truth is: there was no viable reason for it,” Samson told her, “I sacked villages and townships and took prisoners to grow the red lyrium because the supply was cheap and easy to maintain. I was confident Corypheus could make good on his promise, and I think…deep down, part of me knew I wasn’t going to live long enough to pay for what I’d done. So I went through with it because I was already a dead man either way. So I went through with it…” He saw out of his peripheral, Feynriel’s expression, and Samson knew no bitterer shame than in that moment.

“I knew what I was about,” Samson said, feeling none of the confidence in his stance that he’d felt that long year ago when he had been brought low before the Inquisitor and her throne of iron and velvet. No, there was no bitterness and false confidence here…only the raw naked shame of realizing what he’d done. “I knew and I did it anyway, and convinced myself that the deaths of those people were better than losing another one of my men to the maddening transformation of the red song.”

Hadiza was silent, but he saw the slight quiver of her staff that did nothing to belie the fury she banked within her.

“I told you I wasn’t worth it, princess,” Samson said with a sad smile, “but you went and got yourself a monster and loved him anyway.”

Still trembling, tears leaked from her eyes, silent and angry.

Feynriel managed to find his voice. “We need to head back to the exit point.” He said gently, “Inquisitor…if we can get you to safety…”

Hadiza never broke Samson’s gaze, but slowly she took her blade away, and the madness seemed to fade from her eyes, restoring a sharper, deeper clarity as she finally turned her head to look at Feynriel.

“Yes,” she said softly, “let’s get out of here.”

Samson felt the fracture between them deepen and break.

 

 

When Hadiza opened her eyes, she breathed deeply, taking the fragrance of jasmine oil deep within her lungs, and found herself strangely longing for the wintery atmosphere of the Frostbacks. She lay still, feeling as if her very spirit were still returning to the blood, skin, and bone of her body. She flexed her fingers, finding no trace of corruption on her arm. The veins had receded to nothingness, and the skin that had withered from it was supple again. Slowly, she sat up, arms trembling as she realized that what had felt an eternity to her, had likely not been but a handful of days in the corporeal world. She blinked and turned her head, silently relieved at being able to do something so simple as all that on her own.

“Hadiza.” A soft, melancholy voice pulled her back, and she turned to see Djeneba standing before her, “Welcome back.” The Seeress smiled, dark eyes glittering in the flickering and wavering light of innumerable candies. Hadiza lifted a hand to her face, touching the angles and planes that had been corrupted by the demon. Yes, she was free of it. There, her high cheekbones, courtesy of her mother, and only two eyes as her fingertips brushed her forehead, and her mouth was _her_ mouth, filled with the flat, white teeth of a human. Something hot and wet tickled the length of her cheek and the line of her jaw. Hadiza touched her face, found tears and looked at her fingertips with a renewed sense of wonder.

“It is a mighty thing,” Djeneba said, “to be ridden by a spirit, is it not? Even one so sinister as one’s own pride.”

Hadiza nodded absently, biting her lip as she began to cry silently, tears of gratitude, her heart full in that moment. She looked down and found Samson staring up at her. He sat up and despite their closeness, it seemed for all the world as if they were standing on the opposing ends of a mighty chasm.

“You’re safe, now.” He told her simply, unsure of what to say. “No thanks to me, I suppose.”

Hadiza said nothing, her heart emptying from the cracks placed in it. What had happened in the Fade came flooding back to her, and she could not bring herself to meet Samson’s eyes for many reasons, not the least of which had been her own transgression.

“The two of you should get some rest,” Djeneba said, “and you too, young dreamer. Come.” She beckoned Samson and Feynriel both in one elegant gesture, and Samson left Hadiza alone on her bed his heart burning as he forced himself not to look back. Hadiza watched them go, thinking that the events of her time as a demon’s host would be sufficient to buffer her from the pain.

It wasn’t, and Hadiza lay back against the pillows, curling in on herself. Sleep offered no refuge, only the terror of things she balked to remember, wounds on her psyche fresh and bleeding in the shape of furrows made by claws. But the waking world offered no solace, and Hadiza felt for the first time in a long while, the bitter pang of loneliness. Even when she had been isolated from her peers in the Circle, she had had the fruit of new magic to distract her, of the vapid chatter of other apprentices in the ward to fill up the long hours of her day. In the Inquisition she had not even had the luxury of time to be alone with her thoughts for too long, and even then, she had considered herself free of sin, of the temptation of ‘weaker’ mages.

Until she decided to love a man with the blood of innocents on his hands.

“What have I done?” She whispered to the darkness beyond the protection of the candlelight, drawing the covers up over her body like a child, seeking to hide from the demon of this world and the Fade.

 

When sleep finally overtook her, it was blessedly dreamless and dark, and she slept soundly, for days it felt like, waking only when a servant roused her to see that she took meals, or when she needed to use the chamber pot. She bathed with a clinical detachment, seeking only to cleanse her important, more sensitive parts, and scrubbing at her hair once a week, but no more than that. She did not soak in the deep, clawfoot tub provided, did not luxuriate in the oils and soaps crafted with scents native only to Rivain. Instead, she bathed each day, avoiding the mirrors in the washroom, toweling herself dry, and returning to bed.

When she finally regained her strength enough to see others, Aja came to her, dressed in fine silks and looking like a proper Rivaini lord. She embraced her sister wordlessly, and Hadiza felt a bit of the loneliness ebb as her younger sister’s stronger arms held her close. Aja wept shamelessly and openly, kissing her sister on both cheeks, and grasping her firmly by the shoulders.

“Don’t ever scare me like that, Diza,” she said through her tears, “don’t ever do that again! Maker’s shitting breath! I thought I had lost you for sure! The others had given up…I almost did too. Ah!” Aja wept all over again, hugging her sister, who could say nothing, so Hadiza held her tightly, taking comfort in the unconditional love of the only family left to her. For a moment, Hadiza forgot everything, clinging to the comfort like driftwood amiss a shipwreck.

Aja pulled away first, her eyes still wet with tears as she smiled. “Since you invoked the Right of Inheritance, you are protected by House Fayé,” she explained, “as are we who accompanied you…although I am your sister so this is expected. But, there’s something you must know…”

“I have to face the Rite of Passage to be formally indoctrinated,” Hadiza finished quietly, “I know. Mother’s journal was very thorough.”

Aja frowned. “Why did mother want you to come here? And why is her name anathema?”

Hadiza bit her lip. There was nothing else for it. She could not keep the secrets of their mother from her own sister. No longer.

“Aja…” Hadiza began, “It’s a long story.” Aja smiled.

“Well, Hadiza, we’ve got time.” She laughed. “Give me the rundown on what mother was about, at least. I know…I know you were always her favorite but can you spare just a little of her attention for me this once?”

Hadiza drew back. “What do you mean? I have…what?”

Aja laughed again, a little weaker, and the confidence that was hard-won over years of living the hardened life of a raider, seemed gone in the shadow of her sister.

“You came into your magic and mother was all too excited to let you be the apostate,” Aja said bitterly, but it was sweetened by her self-deprecating smile, “no matter what. And even though I was always the better fighter, somehow none of the victories mattered when you started using your magic.”

Hadiza frowned. “I never meant to…”

“Of course you didn’t,” Aja said quickly, “of course you didn’t mean to steal all the love they had for us both and somehow keep it for yourself. I knew my place. I was third-born, and a daughter besides. Marrying me off would have been difficult no matter what my proclivities, I imagine.” As they sat down, Hadiza thought of their childhood, and imagined what it must have been like for Aja to watch her bloom in power and physical skill, while she was looked as…ordinary.

“I’m sorry.” Hadiza said sadly, “I didn’t…had I but known—“ Aja held up her hand.

“Doesn’t matter, now. Just tell me what secrets mother imparted to you.”

And so Hadiza told her. Hadiza broke open the seal and told Aja all that had been kept within their mother’s journal. She spoke of the abuse she’d suffered at the hands of their late grandmother and their father, placing a calming hand on Aja’s tensed forearm as her anger flared and simmered. Hadiza spoke of how the affair with the knight-commander began, and why it continued for so long, even after Ariadne’s birth. Knowing what she knew of the abuse, Aja forgave her mother what was clearly not casual dalliance, but a refuge in a place where she was clearly unwelcome.

It lent context to the treatment Aja suffered after Hadiza had been sent away.

“I always knew Edward was a bastard,” Aja said softly, “whatever runoff I got of his horseshit, mother must have gotten the full brunt of it.”

Hadiza nodded sadly. “There were bruises we never saw.”

“Never her face, though,” Aja said, “I knew…I knew he hit her, Diza. But never her face. But there’s something you should probably know.”

Hadiza held her head, “Please no more bad news, Aja. My heart can’t take it.”

Aja’s face was serious as she considered her older sister. She contemplated it for a moment, and then nodded.

“Alright,” she said quietly, “no more bad news.”

And so Hadiza continued to spell out for her sister the instructions their mother left them. Hadiza, being a mage, claimed the Right of Inheritance, but that was only the first step.

“So what’s next?” Aja asked, “Do you go and testify your legitimacy and they give you some sort of initiation.”

Hadiza opened her mouth to explain but a knock at the door interrupted her. A servant, clad in the livery of House Fayé, bowed in the doorway.

“My lady Hadiza, my lady Aja,” she said, “your presence is respectfully requested in the council chamber.”

Hadiza nodded and moved to finish dressing in the clothes that had been provided. Her shirt, jerkin, and leggings had been ruined by the black bile she’d hacked up during the exorcism spell, and so she wore the traditional _boubou_ of Rivain, the wide collar stiff with elegant brocade, an intricate pattern in the cloth giving way to a scene in the Rivaini forests where deer leapt. It was simple and elegant, and most of all, it was comfortable. The _gele_ she struggled with, opting to tie it simply around her head, and the sandals were simple as well, save for the complexity of the stitch, and the sturdiness of the leather. Thus dressed, she and her sister followed the servant to the large, blue-domed chamber from before. This time, it seemed as if the entire family had assembled and Hadiza was once again jarred by the echoes of her own genes in so many dark faces. Silver eyes, jet black hair of varying textures and styles, everyone cool and statuesque, elegantly attired, and at the head stood the patriarch and matriarch both, side by side. Assane was a warrior, she knew, and a fearsome battlemage who had earned his own scars in battle from what she saw. Djeneba, who complimented him, was clad in all white and gold, her expression unreadable, but her eyes soft and kind.

“So,” she began, “Hadiza Trevelyan, daughter of the one called Maribasse Fayé, do you still wish to claim the Right of Inheritance?”

Hadiza felt naked beneath so many watchful eyes, and she wanted to reach for her sister’s hand for support. She searched the room, and found Dorian, Vivienne, Feynriel, and Samson standing together, looking just as pensive. She thought about what the claim and invocation would encompass, and how it would change everything. She wondered which of the women assembled would be the next Seeress, and from the increasingly furious look one of the women was giving her, she knew. Her henna-limbed hands were balled into white-knuckled fists, and she stood next to a taller man, who was a younger version of Assane, and he bore the telltale silver eyes of their line. The woman’s eyes were dark. Ah, the bride and groom…a fine mess Hadiza had made.

“Yes.” Hadiza said simply, “I do.”

She saw the bride’s eyes blaze in fury, and then die in the cold, withering look that followed, her jaw set in determination. Her husband, Assane’s, son, gently touched her arm in an attempt to quell her fury. Djeneba’s dark eyes were clear with resignation as she inclined her head and turned to her husband. For a moment they spoke in hushed tones, and then turned as one to address the assembly.

“Let it be heard!” Djeneba’s voice carried, despite never truly raising to a bellow, “Hadiza Trevelyan, daughter of Maribasse Fayé seeks the Right of Inheritance, as is her due. Should she succeed in the Rite of Passage, she will be accorded all honors and privileges as is due a scion of House Fayé. Being a mage, she will also be allowed to test to see if she may become a seer.” At that, the bride, previously keeping her rage capped, finally exploded.

“This is an abomination!” She cried, her voice scratchy and shrill. Her husband attempted to calm her but she shrugged him off. “No, Babacar! No! We have tolerated the Inquisitor and her lot in our home! They ruined my wedding day with their antics. Did they not seek an exorcism? I see the Inquisitor is free of the corruption that spirit caused. Why do we still tolerate her? Her mother was declared dead! Anathema! She has no right to usurp any of us!”

Hadiza’s eyes narrowed. “You are right,” she said cooly, “my mother _is_ dead, taken by a wasting sickness the year of the Fifth Blight. But the tenets are clear: while she is declared anathema, I and my sisters are not. I have every right to challenge House Fayé for my right to bear the name.”

Assane stirred, though not in anger. “Maribasse…is dead?”

Hadiza felt no pity in that moment, only her own cold anger. She had traveled long, far, and endured much to arrive here. She would not be turned aside.

“Yes. Did you, in all your rage, never think to track her movements?” Hadiza asked. Assane snorted.

“You know so much of our traditions. Do you know why your mother was declared anathema, then?” He asked, and Hadiza felt a dozen eyes on her. She knew what needed to be done, and yet…

“Yes.” She heard herself saying, and the words came, heavy and limned in truth, “I know what she did. In her envy of her sister’s magic, she betrayed this House and gave her sister over to the templars in Dairsmuid. She stole the sacred armor that had been designed for her had she come into her own powers, and for years she lived with the regret of what she had done, under the oppressive tyranny of a noble house that wanted nothing from her but her ability to birth children.”

Silence.

Hadiza continued. “You hold mages in such high regard in this place, that you forget that those without magic can be just as valuable. And I know that my mother’s betrayal has reopened the wound anew in the wake of the massacre of Dairsmuid.” She glanced around, “But it does not negate my right to claim Inheritance. It does not gainsay my mission’s core.”

“And what is that?” Assane asked quietly, “To usurp our entire house in vengeance for your mother? Does her specter compel you, Inquisitor?”

Hadiza shook her head. “A rift older than me must be closed,” and she smiled wryly at the words, “and it is no small wonder why. The lines of succession were ruined for her betrayal. Even now, are you even sure the new bride is capable of being a seer? Will you stake the future of your bloodline on the hopes that her ability to bond with spirits eventually manifests?”

“How dare—“ The bride began but Djeneba stopped her.

“Enough, Oluremi!” She snapped, then calmed in the next instant. “The Inquisitor’s point is valid. You have not yet undergone the test to see if you have the strength of will to become a seer. And if it comes to light that you are unable to fill the role, our task becomes that much harder.” She pointed to Hadiza.

“We will grant your request,” she said and Hadiza stood a little straighter despite the lingering ache in her body, “but before you can undergo the Rite, you must train for it.”

Hadiza frowned. “Train for it? Just what does the Rite encompass?” The bride, once seething, suddenly looked like a cat that had successfully devoured the canary. She didn’t like it.

“To prove you are worthy to join the ranks of House Fayé’s mages as an outsider,” Assane said sternly, “you will test your mettle against four of our finest warriors. From there we can gauge your skill and see if you are even worth training.”

Hadiza stepped forward, fists clenched. “I accept your challenge!” She said fiercely, and she noted Samson’s surprise, as well as Vivienne’s thoughtful and approving smile, “Who am I to fight and when?”

Assane grinned. “You will be fighting my son, Babacar Fayé, his wife, Oluremi, the warrior Ajisayé, and Mimunatu Fayé. All of them have earned their _Tawada Jiki_ in the Rite, and they will gauge your skill in the arena, both as a warrior and as a mage. You have until the next new moon to prepare.” Assane’s smile was decidedly unfriendly. “Does that please you, Inquisitor?”

Hadiza swallowed hard, but steeled her will. She did not look to her friends, did not dare lose her nerve by seeking their silent counsel. In all her years she had worked to avoid such brutality. But if she was to complete her mission she needed to play by their rules. She had faced down dragons during her time as Inquisitor, had faced darkspawn magisters, and even the strange, eerie behemoths known as the Titan. She had pitted blade and magic against the best warriors and mages in Thedas, and had defeated a powerful templar with a combination of wit and speed.

What was four human warriors to that?

Hadiza shut her eyes briefly, imagining how the battle would go, and gauging her current state. When she opened her eyes, the gazes of others no longer mattered. All that mattered was her answer.

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter, I know. A lot happened. I'm tired. Leave your thoughts in the comments.


	28. Bloomingtide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This entire chapter is just one long version of the sentence "Meet me in the pit."

**_Cloudreach_ **

Even though it was spring in the south, Rivain maintained the climate of high summer it seemed, although it was the rainy season. Storms rolled in from the east, bringing torrential downpour, making the ground too muddy for riding, and bringing a maelstrom of mosquitos when the rains stopped and the heat returned. The air was soupy and thick with moisture, and Hadiza and her companions were miserable. For all that, Hadiza was content. She was free of the pride demon that nearly killed her, and most of the contamination of the Anchor had ebbed in the wake of her hard-won fight in the Fade.

She had, in essence, managed to swallow her pride.

Her recovery was slow at first, and the stormy weather did little to help, but eventually she was able to move about for longer periods of time, and when the sun dried the mud, she began her training in earnest. She and her sister took frequent runs through House Fayé’s extensive grounds, and Hadiza felt her lungs burn from the effort, weighed down by armor and weapon alike, pushing her body to run that much further each day. She began to practice her forms as Old Ricardo had taught her long ago, keeping up her footwork as she wed the fleeting styles of the rogue with the static styles of the mage.

And the rift between herself and Samson remained as vast and uncrossable as ever.

They passed one another in hallways, speaking only when necessary, hesitant and awkward. He had shut himself off from her when her health returned, and it was worse than before. She could no longer read him, and she longed to see him smile at her again. But she knew she’d wounded him deeply. Just as he’d wounded her it seemed, and so they spoke little, avoiding one another with all the finesse of a druffalo in a glassware shop.

It didn’t matter, Hadiza would tell herself, she had to train and prepare. She could attempt to mend things with Samson later, but now she had a renewed purpose. So Hadiza threw herself into her training in those days, conditioning her body until she could run farther, or longer, until she could lift heavier, until her reflexes were as fast as she could make them.

She wrote frequently to the Inquisition back home, ensuring that all was well while she was away. Once Skyhold was assured that the Inquisitor was no longer in any true danger, the letters became more curious, wondering when she would return.

Hadiza found herself unsure of how to answer.

With House Fayé having begrudgingly accepted her as a ward of the House, Hadiza had full access to the training facility where she could hone her talents. It was in this place Samson found her. He watched her with the same critical eye he always did when she trained, and after several days, broke the long silence between them. She was going through shield maneuvers, clearly having decided she would need one, and Samson found while the scaffolding for skill was there, she still needed work. So he lingered, a tired ghost, while she made tracks in the sand pit, blocking, deflecting, smashing. But he knew it was not enough. She would need more than the rudimentary skills to utilize a shield to its full potential.

He caught her as she wrapped up for the day, and for a moment, they stared at one another, silent as stars. Samson glanced down at her arms.

“You’re getting stronger.” He said and immediately chided himself for saying it. Hadiza didn’t smile.

“You think so?” She asked softly, “You want to test that?”

Samson blinked. “You…you challenging me to a bout?” He asked and he felt a flicker of something in his chest, felt a spark of the old familiarity between them. Hadiza considered him a moment, her expression unreadable as she thought on the potential.

“No,” she said after a stretch of heartbeats between them, “no I’m not.” And then she moved past him, wordless and closed off. Samson took a deep breath, and couldn’t even muster the energy to sigh. Instead, he lingered, wondering if she even needed him to stay.

 

 

The nights were harder.

After the evening meal, the family would gather and the _tarihi_ , Fasadé, would tell stories of their ancestors and deeds. Hadiza was permitted to listen to these stories, and she did, watching raptly as the elder woman spun tale after tale in her melodic voice. In the end, Hadiza felt at peace, as if a spell had been woven through the woman’s storytelling, and settled around her like a shroud. Hadiza wore this proverbial shroud all the way to her chambers.

And the spell promptly broke, leaving her naked and bereft.

As she lay down, Hadiza found the quiet to be…disquieting. She would pace her chambers restlessly, trying to exhaust herself, and by the time she lay down and the dreamless darkness of sleep caught her, the sun would be rising and she would get up to do it all over again.

Day in. Day out.

Hadiza slept little, ate less, and trained more.

Her time in the bathing chamber was sparse, only enough to clean herself up and make herself presentable, and even then, she averted her gaze from the mirror as she dressed.

Day in. Day out.

Hadiza felt the days blur together. There was no night or day. There were merely moments when she was awake, and when there was darkness.

And her friends began to worry.

“She hasn’t been eating much,” Feynriel said over breakfast one morning, “and she hardly speaks. I…I’m worried, especially with regards to her coming trial.”

Vivienne stirred her tea thoughtfully. “The poor dear has been through much in a short time,” she said pragmatically, “and she aims to put herself in a great deal more danger with this ridiculous pomp about inheritance. It’s clear she is a scion of this house. The patriarch merely seeks to play games and deny her this right based on an old grudge.”

“More than that,” Dorian remarked, “I definitely sensed some tension and uncertainty regarding their heirs. If the line of succession has been thrown into chaos, it may be that Hadiza would be more than another scion if she proved herself.”

Vivienne smiled thinly. “And if she proves herself a seer she would inherit the entire house and all the social clout that comes with it.”

Dorian chuckled. “Precisely. Also, have any of you been to the house’s library? I must say I was deeply surprised they had so many rare tomes and scrolls in their possession. I always considered Rivain to be something of a backwards country.”

Vivienne pinned him with a look that made him go ashen. “That is to say…I did not expect that such knowledge had reached…ah never mind.”

Vivienne said nothing, turning a softer and more knowing gaze to Samson. Samson held her gaze for a breath before looking down at his food, decidedly more interested in his plate than anything else. He said nothing, keeping his mouth full to keep from being forced to respond, but the guilt and shame washed over him just the same.

Each day, he watched Hadiza in the training yard, and she did not get better. Stronger. Faster. But somehow she was getting progressively sloppier in technique, taking hits she could have easily deflected, being reckless with her life when she could have easily conserved her energy. Samson watched with growing frustration as she and her sister sparred in the pit, and then he watched Hadiza drop her shield arm and Aja stepped into her guard and struck her down.

“Diza, c’mon!” Aja shouted, “Where’s your head at? I should not have been able to land that shot!” Hadiza did not get up from her position on the ground, sitting up slightly, her expression one of a sleepwalker startled into wakefulness. Her nose was encrusted with blood, and there was sand from the pit all over the side of her face. Dark shadows gathered beneath her eyes and Samson began to see, for the first time, what had been bothering everyone.

Samson stepped into the ring. “Trevelyan!” He barked, making Aja look up, and for a moment he almost hesitated. Aja was dangerous enough in the sparring ring, but goading her into a fight was suicide. “That’s enough for one day,” he continued, “I’ll see to her.”

Aja hesitated, then hauled Hadiza to her feet, who stumbled, uncaring.

“Whatever you say, General,” Aja said with a mock salute which Samson ignored, “but you better have all your clothes on when the dinner bell rings.” Samson frowned but ignored that jab too. How could Aja have been so blind? He waited until the Reaver was out of earshot and out of sight, and then he put the steel in his spine that had gotten him the title of _General_ in the first place.

“Hadiza,” he began, his voice hard, “what’s gotten into you? Maker, I counted during that fight. You could have picked her apart in no more than three moves and she took you down in two. I thought you wanted this fucking birthright? Or have you had a change of mind?”

Hadiza did not answer him, and instead, stared at him blankly, almost as if she were elsewhere, not hearing him, not feeling him.

Not feeling anything. _Maker’s breath._

“When is the last time you slept?” Samson asked quietly and Hadiza blinked, not answering. Tentatively, Samson reached to take her gently by the hand and lead her back inside. Hadiza followed without protest. Along the hallways they passed several servants who bowed in her presence, and a few members of the House who looked upon them curiously, their eyes lingering on Samson. He no longer saw open disdain, but there was a great deal of mistrust that caused the younger members of the house to give him a wide berth. Not for the first time did Samson wonder what horrors the Chantry wrought upon this country that a single templar presence within their city would put them on such careful alert.

They rounded another corner when they ran into Oluremi. She carried a few books tucked under her arm and she had been calm before seeing them. Her gaze was akin to a blast of frost, and her lips curled into a disdainful frown. Samson knew that the disdain was for he and Hadiza both.

“So, it’s true, then,” Oluremi said contemptuously, “the Inquisitor comes to claim a birthright she never even knew of until her most desperate hour, and takes a templar to her bed.” Samson stood up a little straighter, holding Hadiza’s hand a little tighter.

“You jealous, Oluremi?” Hadiza’s voice was a ghost for all its inflection, and her tired eyes and haggard face took on something akin to amusement. “You jealous that I bear the stamp of my lineage clear on my face? And you had to marry out just to get some sort of…recognition?” Hadiza broke Samson’s grip, stumbling as if drunk but he knew it for sleep deprivation. He’d seen it before. He’d felt it before.

“Your time will come, Inquisitor,” Oluremi sneered, “and when you face me in the pit, and you are beaten and broken upon the sands, I will be there to laugh at your pitiful expense.”

Hadiza laughed, hysteria in her voice.

“Like I care.” She flung out recklessly, “Like anything matters. You want to be a seer so badly? I will gladly give you the report on what it feels like to be ridden by a demon when you don’t want to.”

Samson stepped forward but Hadiza held him at bay.

“No!” She snapped, “She needs to hear this, since she grasps for a gift she can’t possibly understand.” Hadiza’s eyes turned to Oluremi, looked her up and down, limning her in her own disdain.

“Imagine being bound to a ball of flame,” Hadiza said in a low voice, “imagine for a moment, that flame filling up every part of you, until you feel as if your body may become ash. And then the flame goes out, and _poison_ takes its place. It burns in the blood, and a voice not your own fills the cavern of your skull, loud and insistent. It does not let you sleep, eat, or shit without letting you know it is waiting.” Hadiza paced around Oluremi, unstable and angry, seeing her own ghosts that had not yet been buried deep enough for her to forget them.

“You will fight,” she said, remembering Corypheus’ words to her, “you will always fight. But the poison will fill your mouth with teeth, will split your tongue in twain, and then it will move you. You will try to turn your head and find it unresponsive. You will try to blink and find your eyes remain open. Your bones become a prison from which only death is the means of escape. Every breath is a wind between the bars of that cage, filling you to the brim with agony. Your skin suffocates you, your blood is acid in your veins, and you are feverish with thirst, unquenchable thirst. You will scream, and if you are free to, pound your fists bloody against the prison walls. No one will hear you, and no one will know until it’s too late. The spirit runs you at full power at all times, and if you are lucky, it will leave.”

Hadiza stepped close to Oluremi, dangerous and unfriendly, and Oluremi’s face was rife with uncertainty, disturbed.

“And if you are unlucky, you will be bound within your own skin and bone, and the spirit will ride you until your body is a husk. Only then will it leave, and in your last, agonizing moments as your life flickers and skips before your eyes, you will wish a templar had been there to kill you.”

Hadiza stepped away, pitiless and raw in her own vulnerability. “Do not deign to ever insult me again, Oluremi, or you will not survive to gloat over me in the pit.”

Samson felt his blood run cold. Hadiza _never_ threatened death. Not even when he’d faced her in the Arbor Wilds what seemed like so long ago.

Oluremi’s face went ashen and she stalked away quickly, making a sign to ward off evil as she left. Hadiza watched her go, and Samson saw her in a different light, her hair disheveled, her eyes colder, her lips dry.

_Maker’s shitting breath._

“Hadiza,” Samson said, “you didn’t have to do that. That was foolish.”

Hadiza looked at him, caught between shame and pride and anguish.

“Was I supposed to let her spit on me, then? Is that all I’m supposed to do? Let the world spit on me because I’m the Inquisitor and I’m better than that?”

“That’s not at all what I’m say—“

Hadiza closed the distance between them, angry. “I’ll tell you something, _Raleigh_ ,” and never had he heard her speak the name with such venom, “I have had a demon—a _demon_ —live inside my body for months. It has said things I cannot dare repeat, made me do things I would never do, and I realize now that it is my own damned fault.” She knifed her fingers through her tangled hair, and Samson watched her come undone, powerless to stop it.

“If I had been a little more ruthless, perhaps,” her voice wavered, “if I had killed where I spared, let die where I healed…if I had hated where I loved…” Samson felt a pang in his heart and shut his eyes slowly. “Maker, if I had done the opposite of what I thought was right, I wouldn’t be here. It wouldn’t have gotten to me.”

Samson took her arm. “Hadiza, not here…come on…”

She went with him to her quarters, and there, he let her go, allowed her time to process the scatter of her own psyche in the wake of the realization that perhaps the Chantry’s teachings were in fact…biased.

“I’m a Harrowed mage!” Hadiza shouted, pacing, and then sitting down on the bed, “This isn’t supposed to happen to Harrowed mages.”

Samson said nothing, but when he came to kneel in front of her, she met his gaze, her own wet with tears.

“Don’t do this, Hadiza,” he murmured, “don’t do this to yourself.”

“Do what?” She asked him. Samson sighed.

“I know what’s hurting you,” he told her, “I’ve seen it before and I was too late to stop it. I know it hurts, Hadiza, but you can’t let it poison you. You have to let us help you…you have to let me in.”

Hadiza laughed, but it was a broken sound. Samson’s heart broke with it, remembering Kirkwall. Remembering the nights spent listening to Cullen cry as ghosts from Kinloch Hold followed him into his sleep, accusing him of failing to save them.

“I’m never letting anyone in again.” Hadiza whispered. Samson ignored the sting of the words, knowing exactly what she meant.

“I failed to help Cullen,” Samson said, “when he needed it most. Had I done more, said more, he might not have been the wreck he was…might have even been a better match for you in the long-run.” He laughed at that, reminded that Hadiza was the one person in this world who loved him at all it seemed. “But I didn’t. I failed him. But you…Hadiza, I’m right here. Maker, please, just…let me help you.”

Hadiza passed her hands over her haggard face.

“You can’t help me.” She mumbled, “No one can help me. I’m a broken fucking mage, Samson. I gave into temptation. I crossed the line I had proven to the world I would never cross.”

“You did it to save my life.” Samson reasoned.

“I did it for power.” Hadiza countered, “Not just to save your life. Maker, did you see how easily they bound me? How they held me in place while they tried to kill you?” She sat up a little straighter, but trembled from exhaustion.

“I said yes to the demon after months of saying no. And it knew I would. It told me months ago that I would eventually say yes. And it was right. Am I so weak that I can’t even defeat pride?”

“You’re not weak, Hadiza,” Samson said, “if you were weak you wouldn’t have saved the world. You wouldn’t have pulled together the Inquisition. You certainly wouldn’t have beaten me on the field.” He smiled self-deprecatingly and she made no attempt to smile back, lacking the mental and emotional strength to do anything.

“You’re stubborn, a bit brash, more passionate than anyone I’ve ever met.” Samson found himself wanting to save her as she’d saved him so long ago. “You are so far from weak. I…Maker, Hadiza, I love you more than I can even say. You’re one of the strongest mages in Thedas, and you’re only going to get stronger.”

“Stop blowing smoke up my ass, Raleigh,” she said and he grinned. There she was, beneath the scars, his princess was still there. He stood up.

“On your feet.” He said. Hadiza glared up at him. Samson raised his brows. “Come on, on your feet.”

Hadiza took his offered arm and he hauled her to her feet easily. Gently, he guided her to the washroom, to the mirror, and she froze like a horse in the sights of a predator. Samson blinked.

“What is it?” He asked. Hadiza shook her head.

“Not the mirror,” she whispered, “I don’t wan—need to see.” Samson’s brows furrowed a moment, and then it dawned on him. She’d had to see her own transformed body in the mirror. No doubt the demon had twisted her perception of herself. He nodded.

“Alright then,” he said, “no mirrors. Will you at least get cleaned up and get some sleep?”

Hadiza gazed warily at the ornate full-length mirror, then nodded slowly. Samson squeezed her hand.

“Good girl. Would you like help or will you manage?”

Hadiza hesitated. They had not touched in weeks. Not since Ostwick, and Hadiza was unsure if they ever would again. Pride had fractured something between them, and she was unsure if either of them could mend it…if it could even be mended.

“I will manage.” She said quietly and Samson nodded. It was here he would have leaned in, pressing a gentle and comforting kiss to her forehead. He knew better than anyone that physical contact was as much pleasure to Hadiza as it was a form of comfort. But instead, their hands lingered in one another’s grips for a moment, and he pulled away, breaking contact.

Hadiza stood in the washroom alone, undressing as silent tears rolled down her cheeks. For the first time, she lingered in her bath tub, sitting in the steaming water with her knees drawn up to her chest, sobbing quietly.

Samson, on the other side of the door, listened, butchering his heart with every minute that passed. He knew what ailed her, and it was a wound that was nothing of the flesh. Her mind and soul were still bleeding from fresh wounds, and the blood kept him from being able to help her. She hesitated at his touch, avoided sleep, food, and mirrors. There was no way she would be ready for the test at the start of Bloomingtide.

He suspected that was exactly what Assane wanted.

“Hadiza,” Samson called on the other side of the door, “I’m stepping out for a bit, but I’ll be back. Don’t…don’t worry.” When he received no answer, he thought perhaps she was washing her hair. He heard a splash, and sighed, leaving the room.

Assane Fayé was busying himself with paperwork regarding trade with the Qunari settlement of Kont-arr in the north when Samson barged into his office. He looked up, silver eyes hard as diamonds, and as fiery as stars.

“What is the meaning of this?” He demanded, “Why have you not been confined to chambers per my instruction?” Samson came up to his desk, unafraid and angry.

“Call off the test.” He said simply. “At least until Hadiza is well enough to fight.”

Assane laughed, more of a bark of derisiveness than anything. “Come to petition for more time on her behalf? It is no fault but her own if she is not ready by the appointed time.”

Samson didn’t have time for this. “Look, if she tests now, I can say with absolute certainty that at least one of her opponents will kill her.”

Assane was silent.

Samson laughed. “Andraste’s flaming tits, that’s what you want, isn’t it? I should have…you’re hoping one of them kills her and saves you the trouble of having to give her what she’s owed.”

“She is owed _nothing_ , templar!” Assane spat, “She is owed nothing because she _is_ nothing. Maribasse was declared anathema and so long as that holds, none of her illegitimate spawn will ever hold a title in this house.”

Samson had never wanted to actively strangle someone since he’d crossed paths with Meredith.

“If I remember correctly,” Samson said with growing and gleeful malice, “it’s the Seeress that gets to decided who’s owed what. But you’re not a completely toothless hound,” he felt a degree of delight he hadn’t felt in ages, “you can call off the fight. Say you want to make sure everyone’s head is in the game beforehand.”

Assane’s face was contorted in impotent rage. By the tenets of the House, Samson was his guest by way of Hadiza’s claim to Inheritance, and thus the magic Samson felt gathering in the room could not be used against him. Good, because he wasn’t sure he had enough lyrium to pull from to neutralize it.

“If I grant that request, templar,” Assane said quietly, “and she fails anyway, I will personally come to collect your head myself.”

Samson grinned. “Oh believe you me, I look forward to it. You’re not the first lord I’ve promised to see that their son inherits earlier than planned. And I’ll tell you what I told him: if you harm so much as a hair on Hadiza’s head, you’re going to know exactly what kind of templar you’re dealing with.”

“Idle threats do not become you, Chantry slave,” Assane spat, “and look at you…you’re nigh bone-dry from lyrium. You’ll need to do better than that if you are to contend with me.”

Samson didn’t falter. “You may be right. But you might want to step lightly anyway. I’ve been told I’ve a mean sword arm.” Assane and Samson squared off a moment longer, and the older man’s silver eyes studied the warrior, carving away the bluster to get at the truth.

“Very well.” Assane said at last, “We shall extend the training period. If she is not ready by the eighth of Justinian, then her claim to Inheritance becomes forfeit, and you and your Chantry-serving lot will have a day to clear Zazzau’s walls and go back where you came from.”

Samson spread his arms. “That’s all I ask, ser.” he said with a slick, shark-toothed grin, “She’ll be ready by then. Just make sure you keep those newlyweds in line until then.”

He turned to leave.

“The Red General,” Assane said and Samson froze at the door. “The Red General is what they called you, yes? The one who took the corrupted lyrium and mutated his men with it? Your army cut a swathe across the south like a scythe through wheat. How is it you came to be the Inquisitor’s personal bloodhound?”

Samson took a deep breath, and did not answer, choosing to leave instead. But he could feel the blade edge of Assange’s satisfied smirk cut across his back as he did.

 

 

 

** _Bloomingtide_ **

 

Hadiza slept well enough, and slowly, under Samson’s care and vigilance, she began to scrape away at the veneer, revealing the woman beneath. He conferred with the others regarding her training, and after some heated debate between himself and Aja, decided he would see to her training, at least until she was well enough to train on her own.

“How about,” Feynriel suggested, “we all train with her?”

“That would just confuse her.” Aja said fiercely, “She needs to have a solid strategy by the time Justinian comes around or she’ll be eaten alive.”

Feynriel rubbed at his hands, a habit he’d developed since beginning his tutelage with Djeneba.

“But it’s highly unlikely her opponents will all fight exactly the same way,” he countered, “so why should the Inquisitor not come with a few surprises of her own?”

Samson and Aja stared at one another momentarily, and Samson finally sighed.

“Boy has a point.” He groused. “We don’t know what any of the competition may have. I’ve a feeling it’s not just magic-slinging they’ll be doing.”

“You are, of course, correct,” Vivienne interjected, “Rivaini battlemages, for all their unorthodox tutelage, are not a force to be trifled with. I hear tell the raider captains shell out entire fortunes for the sake of employing even one aboard their ships.” She glanced to Aja, who shrugged noncommittally.

“It’s true.” Aja said at last, “Isabela had one in her employ when she sank my old ship, the _Mykonos_. The ship went down in flames that the water couldn’t douse.” She shuddered, remembering. Captain Niko had died during that battle, and she and Fatu had been taken aboard the _Siren’s Call II_ to serve in lieu of being executed. Still, Aja had seen the damage a battlemage unshackled by the Chantry’s dogma could do.

“Maybe that’s the problem,” Dorian said quietly, “maybe our lady is doomed if she doesn’t stop thinking like a Circle mage.”

“That’s nonsense,” Vivienne said sharply, “I trained in the Circle same as she, and you’ve seen the power I wield.”

Dorian laughed. “Indeed I have, Madame Vivienne, but you’ve also had to pit yourself against powerful opponents all of your life. Hadiza had likely never been pitted against a foe with more powerful magic until Corypheus. The Circles can be very…restrictive. She thinks like a Circle mage, but these scions of House Fayé have no such limitations.”

Samson crossed his arms. “If you’re suggesting we increase her power I’m going to have to object, Vint. And not just because I am…was a templar. She is not a good place to handle that kind of push right now.”

“If you think I’m suggesting she consort with de—“

“That’s not what I’m suggesting!” Samson snapped, bringing silence hard on the heels of his words, “Have any of you looked at her? I mean, really looked at her. Or are you just blindly depending on her luck as the Inquisitor to see her through another trial? She hasn’t slept, she barely eats, and all you all care about is making her stronger.”

“Samson…” Aja said slowly.

“I know the signs of a breaking point when I see them,” Samson continued, “I saw it in Kirkwall. In mages and templars both. I saw it in Cul—the Commander. And I could have helped, but it wasn’t enough. Too gone off the damned dust to do much else. But I’m not going to sit on my hands and let her kill herself for some foolish inheritance. And I won’t let any of you lot help her do it either.”

For a moment, no one said a word.

“Well,” Vivienne said, smoothing her hands in her lap, “it’s about time.”

Samson frowned. “What?”

Vivienne sighed, smiling. Dorian laughed. Aja grinned. Feynriel blushed, looking sheepish.

“We’ve been trying to figure out how to get your head out of your ass for weeks,” Aja explained, “the way you and Hadiza have been moping around acting like you hate each other has been messing with our cohesion. So…”

“…I suggested we goad you into action.” Dorian said brightly. “Given your temper, it didn’t take much, but we needed a way for it to be organic.”

Vivienne did not say anything. Samson frowned.

“You mean you…” He began, “…you pushed her to get me to act?”

Aja shook her head. “No, not her. You. I knew Hadiza was going to throw herself into training, and I let her. I tried to warn her what would happen but she was so far gone she didn’t heed me. Feynriel’s been trying to get her to take that sleeping draught to help block any dreams that may come, but she refused. It took my thrashing her and you stepping in to get through to her.”

“Do you realize what might have happened?” Samson demanded, angry. Aja turned on him.

“Yes! I knew! But had you stopped avoiding her to ‘protect her’ because of what our father said to you, we might not have had to do this at all.”

Samson’s nostrils flared. Aja threw up her hands.

“For fuck’s sake, man,” she said, “you never used to give this much of a shit about decorum and class boundaries before. Why start, now?”

“And you?” Samson demanded, looking to Vivienne accusingly, “You’re the one who agreed with the Bann regarding Hadiza. Why the sudden change of mind?”

Vivienne smiled, and tilted her head slightly, almost inquisitive in her regard. Samson looked around, trying to translate the gesture.

“You want her to win, don’t you?” He remarked as the truth began to dawn on him. “If she wins, she has access to all of House Fayé’s resources, money included. She won’t need Bann Trevelyan’s aid and she can…”

Vivienne smiled primly, satisfied.

“Shit.” He breathed. “I’ve been a right idiot, haven’t I?”

“I do believe that is the truest statement you’ve said in weeks,” Dorian said with a grin, “now can you go and save your lady so we can whip her into shape?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _tarihi_ \- Historian. I used this word instead of the one for 'storyteller' which was too long to type.
> 
> Also, you should note that I am using the Thedosian calendar, which does account for Thedas' twin moons which involve some interesting celestial phenomena on a nigh daily basis.
> 
> As always, comments, questions, concerns, and flailing are welcomed below.


	29. Ƙaɗan-Ƙaɗan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samson has a much needed discussion with House Fayé's _tarihi_. Hadiza tests seven years' bad luck. Babacar confronts his father regarding the upcoming trial. Trigger warning for self-harm, blood, and suicide ideation. Everything is terrible and I'm trying to fix it.

**_8 Bloomingtide_ **

“Alright, so you’re unarmed and your mana is dry. You’ve got no lyrium potions on hand, and I’ve got you pinned. What do you do?”

The day was hot and humid, with rain clouds threatening from the east, but refusing to relinquish the reprieve from the sun. Samson was backlit from the sun, sweat gleaming on his skin, which had gone from a red burn to a deep, farmer’s tan. His hair was stringy with sweat which dripped onto the sands below. He was poised to strike. Hadiza lay pinned beneath him, her staff too far out of reach, and her mana dry. He had drained her himself to create the effect. Without magic or a weapon, Hadiza had only her wits. Samson waited for her answer, and gave her ten seconds.

“Decide.” He ordered curtly, “Because I guarantee you won’t have this much time to in a real bout.”

“Then why don’t you make it a real one?” Hadiza shot back irritably. Samson hesitated, searching her face. Hadiza was serious, her eyes smoldering silver fire in the mid afternoon sunlight. Samson lowered his fist slowly, his face conflicted, mouth set in a grim line. For a moment, the pit was quiet, and Hadiza’s chest heaved in heavy breaths. Samson had never thought to actually strike her before, but he knew it was the only way one could learn.

His fist came down, faster than his age belied, and Hadiza reacted, nearly too late, jerking aside as he left a deep imprint in the dirt by her head. Immediately, her head came up and crashed into his nose. He let out a curse, and Hadiza rolled them over. She brought two blows down, quick, like he showed her. He tapped the ground, signifying surrender.

Later, she helped him nurse his broken nose and bruised eye. Samson laughed, blood in his teeth, wincing as Hadiza’s fingertips touched the break gingerly.

“I’m sorry.” She murmured and then set the break, making him shout out an expletive she’d never heard before. She smiled grimly, her hands bloody, and then reached for the lyrium potion which she drank straight away. With her magic replenished, she mended the break, biting her lip.

“As if my nose wasn’t crooked enough already.” Samson muttered irritably, “When I said to use your head that’s not exactly what I had in mind.”

Hadiza’s healing magic roved his face, dispelling the unfathomable ache, and reducing the swelling. Her smile was half-hearted.

“You’re the one who put me in a situation where I had little choice. Do not ask for claws and then cry when I draw blood. Tilt your head forward…no, there. Alright, good.” She checked his nose for any further injury, then helped wipe away the blood from his face. For a moment, Samson let himself believe that nothing had changed between them. She was caring for him as she always had, and he basked in her attentions, ignoring the cracks in the glass. Hadiza paused, fingertips lingering on his cheeks, and their eyes met. Samson wanted to turn his head, kiss her bloodied fingertips, to feel the weight of her in his heart again, and he nearly did. Hadiza watched, pupils dilated, before she summarily took her hands away, washing them in the small bowl to clean off the majority of the blood. Samson let out the breath he’d been holding in a heavy and quiet sigh.

“Try not to blow your nose too hard if you need to,” Hadiza instructed, the quintessential healer, “at least for a few hours. And don’t poke at the mending site. Healing magic is not an absolute thing as you well know.” She stood, wiping her hands on the front of her thighs.

“Hadiza…” Samson started and she reached down to pick up the bowl and blood-stiffened cloth she’d been using. Samson wanted to take her arm, pull her back, kiss her fucking face and tell her that he was sorry, but he didn’t. He wasn’t sure if it was pride or shame that goaded him.

“Thank you,” she said, shifting uneasily on her feet, “for your help. I feel myself getting faster, now. And even the shield was lighter today.” She smiled quickly, almost nervously. “I should go. And Fasadé wants to see you, by the way.” Without another word, she was gone, leaving Samson alone to watch the sun set behind the mountains in the west, the ghostly image of two moons beginning to show against the dusky tapestry of the sky. In the distance, he heard the caw of crows, and the high-pitched song of cicadas in the bush. Sighing, he passed his hands over his face, careful not to aggravate the break site, wincing as he did anyway, and then got up to leave.

* * *

Fasadé was not a woman who raised her voice against anyone, even her enemies. She had been keeping House Fayé’s records for years, and while she was far older than her posture and gait belied, she was still old, and thus, had run the gamut of things that could try her patience. Thus, when Samson arrived in the library, she did not move from the tome she was reading, did not even look up as he approached, and even as he stood before her, she kept reading.

“You wanted to see me.” Samson stated, and she finally looked up at him, silver eyes rheumy with age, her weathered face giving way to a warmth he’d not had bestowed upon him since first he set foot in Rivain. Samson would never admit it aloud, but it felt good to be looked upon with something other than disdain or disgust. He had been to think that even this far north, the taint of his crimes followed him, and ultimately, he forgot about his ultimate crime: being a templar.

“Sit down, Ser Templar,” Fasadé said, gesturing to the chair across from her. Samson sat, feeling like a boy twice his junior the way the old bat looked at him. She smiled, showing gold teeth, and he wondered not for the first time what the gold teeth signified.

“You’ve caused quite a stir since your arrival,” she remarked, “and I reckon young Hadiza is the only thing tethering you to this place.” Samson frowned.

“I serve the Inquisition. Where the Inquisitor wishes for me to go, I’ve got no choice but to get going.” He shrugged. Fasadé fixed him with a look that made him feel small and feeble.

“That’s horseshit and you know it.” She said, “At any time you could have been sent somewhere else. You decided to tag along.” She shut the tome she was reading, turning the full weight of her attention to the man across from her. “I’ve been alive a long time, Ser Templar, and I know the look of maddening love when I see it. You’d bring her the moon if she asked you to.”

Samson laughed. “I…” He thought about it. “You presume much.”

“I don’t think so. You know, mages and templars have been at each other’s throats since that holier-than-thou Andraste of yours put it in people’s heads that magic was somehow a bad thing.” She glanced around the library, the tenebrous presence of a deepening night encroach around them, making the two candles on the table that much brighter. “And it’s ever been a fun romance that Thedas has entertained, a mage and templar falling in love. Forbidden. Taboo. All of the things that make for an exciting story.”

Samson sighed. “You got a point?” He demanded. Fasadé grinned, the golden light of the candles throwing her face into light and shadow, making her look eerie and almost preternatural in appearance.

“I do, I do.” She leaned back. “But before I get to my point…I need to know: what do you expect will happen if she wins? What does it mean for you if she takes on the role expected of a scion of this House?”

“She’s still the Inquisitor,” Samson said, “and I’m still yoked to the Inquisition for the rest of my days. Her status in this place doesn’t have any bearing on that. If she chooses to send me to the Western Approach then that’s where I’ll go. I’m not…I’m not as important to her as you think I am.”

Silence pervaded for a moment as the weight of his words bowed his shoulders slightly. He wasn’t. He didn’t think he ever was, but the lyrium dulled the pain of it, the pain that while he was living on borrowed time, so too was whatever they had together.

“And when do you plan on telling her of your condition?” Fasadé asked him. Samson startled.

“My…what do you know of it?” He demanded, leaning forward. Fasadé did not falter in the face of his open anger, and instead clasped her hands together.

“We know what the red lyrium does,” she explained, “some time ago, mayhap five generations or so, our family attempted to harness its power. It nearly wiped out any hope of our line’s sustainability. And the results were monstrous. Some mutated into creatures made of the stuff, and others simply died, burned from within to without from the agony of it. But there were few, like yourself, who bore no outward cues of corruption. But the damage within was costly, foreshortening their lives by entire decades. I see the signs in you, templar, but I see you also beat back the symptoms with the blue lyrium.” She smiled warmly, “It will buy you some time, at least.”

Samson thought that perhaps he would yell at her, maybe tell her to mind her own business, but in truth, Dorian’s tonic for combatting the blighted corruption in him, combined with the blue lyrium were just delaying the inevitable. And he had not breathed a word of it to Hadiza.

“I already knew my time was short. She knows this.” He said simply. Fasadé nodded.

“Indeed, indeed. So what happens here has no bearing. But, I wonder, how will you spend the time remaining to you?”

Samson shrugged. “Trying to put things right, much as I can, I guess. Doesn’t seem to be going over well, though.”

“Your blood being called for, eh?” The old woman laughed and Samson grinned.

“Aye,” he affirmed, “my blood and my head too. Can’t say I blame them. I’ve done some unforgivable things.”

Fasadé nodded. “Mm, I know,” at his startled expression she grinned, “Rivain is not some backwater country with no connections. We’ve an ear to the ground as well. I have heard tell of you, Red General. Many here quietly praise your attempt to destroy the Chantry…but I don’t think you are very proud of your attempts.”

Samson shook his head. “No,” he said quietly, “not…not in a way that most people think. I still don’t think the Chantry is worth the land it sits on, not when there’s folk suffering under their purview. But…I think the way I went about it was a mistake.”

“So you hate the Chantry, and yet you cling to the identity the Chantry gave you.”

Samson looked up sharply. “I’m not a templar,” he protested, “not anymore.”

“Aren’t you?” She asked him, “Have you ever been anything else?”

Samson was silent. No. What else had he been but a templar? Another expendable body in expensive plate armor? He had been nothing before the Order, and nothing after. The heights to which he soared had been for the wrong side entirely. _General_ had been the loftiest title ever bestowed upon him. He admitted to himself that being held in such high regard had been…heady, to say the least. For a brief shining moment he had been powerful and respected in a way the Order had never allowed him.

But what was he now, if not a templar?

“I’m just an old man trying to do some good in this world before I’m dead,” he said simply, “if I can lend the skills the Chantry gave me to a better cause, then…I guess that I have no choice.”

“It is something to note that the Chantry expects its templars to serve until they die,” Fasadé said, “and even though Assane is loathe to admit it, there have been one or two of our own in the last few generations who found their place amidst the faithful flock of Andraste.” Samson’s brows rose in surprise.

“Would you like to hear their story?” She asked. Samson nodded. And so she told him, how in the wake of the last Exalted March, House Fayé warred with itself. The younger, more hot-blooded scions sought to dismantle any kind of sympathy for the Chantry in Zazzau, pushing back against the small sect of natives who wished to practice in peace. She told him of the warrior, Esau, who became a templar centuries before, fleeing south to Ferelden where he could practice his faith in peace and solidarity. Samson narrowed his eyes, wondering, refusing to believe.

“So that templar that…” He shook his head, “Small world.” He laughed to himself, remembering. Fasadé smiled.

“I hear his descendants are doing quite well for themselves in Ferelden,” she remarked, “and one of the young templars was even elevated to Knight-Commander of the Inquisition’s Circle Tower.”

Samson laughed a little louder.

“Maker’s balls!” He said, “Is there anywhere your family hasn’t touched?”

Fasadé said nothing, but went on smiling. Samson rubbed at his jaw, sucking his teeth and leaning forward.

“What’d you really bring me here for, old woman?” He asked, “To tell stories? I got enough of those, I think.”

Fasadé was quiet a moment, her smile fading as she studied him. Samson was beginning to dislike the harsh scrutiny he’d been subjected to since his capture a year ago. He had only just begun to acclimate to Vivienne’s varying degrees of withering gazes, and only after the long months on the road had she begun to warm to him slightly. He sighed, waiting for the inevitable.

“Tell me, templar,” she began, “when you were rounding up innocent villagers to farm red lyrium from their bodies…did it ever cross your mind that any one of them could have been a mage.”

Samson blanched.

“I know you told Hadiza differently,” Fasadé continued, “and I know it was only a half-truth. But what exactly were you thinking?”

He was angry, now, angrier than he’d ever been, but more at himself for having made such a monumental mistake. He knew what he’d been thinking during that time.

“It wasn’t a half-truth,” he growled, “I knew I was as good as dead once Corypheus was through with me…much as I didn’t want to believe it. I knew when it was over, the world would burn and there would be no one left to mourn the dead or to hunt me down to answer for my crimes.”

Fasadé's expression was grave, and she regarded him with quiet gravity, letting him run the full gamut of anger, guilt, and shame.

“I knew what I was about,” Samson’s voice was quieter, limned in guilt, “I didn’t care. I just knew that the world would pay for what it’d done to me. To other templars like me.”

“No,” Fasadé said, “just you. Do not use the pain of others to mask your rage, Samson. You capitalized on the pain of others to bolster your own courage to do what you did. Is that not right?”

Samson looked away, unable to meet her silver gaze. She did not smile. There was no victory to be had in this exchange, but the truth was plain and naked between them, beneath the flickering light of the candles. Night fell, and somewhere in the distance a cock crowed the final hour before sleep.

“Yes.” Samson’s voice was so quiet it could barely be called a whisper, but he knew she heard him.

“Selfishness, call it,” Fasadé remarked, “because had you truly had the conviction to make changes to the foundations of the accursed Chantry, I think you might have found yourself in the Inquisition as one of its forerunners and not its prisoner. But that has always been your problem hasn’t it? Lack of courage.”

Samson met her gaze then, his own hard. “It’s not courage I lack, old woman!” He hissed between his teeth. Fasadé did not flinch or budge in the face of his naked anger. Instead, she watched him war with himself, the lie he’d spun to keep himself motivated, and the truth germinating at the core, unable to be torn out.

“I needed support,” he said at last, his voice broken, “I needed…I couldn’t…I was one man. Against thousands of years of bullshit force-fed to countless people. The moment I went against it, I was cast out. If I’d had supporters…if others had not bitten their tongue in the face of injustice, things might have come out differently.”

Fasadé nodded. “These things are never truly given to us to know, Samson. But you are right: perhaps had your fellow templars spoken out against the Chantry’s flawed system, pushed for reform as a unit, you might not have risen from the ashes of defeat as a disgrace.” She did not show any sympathy when Samson winced at the words.

“Be that as it may, your actions against the Chantry are the sole reason no one in this house has tried to kill you.” As his startled look Fasadé laughed, “Did you think it was the will of the matriarch that stayed any hands? Had you not been the Red General—had you been any other templar—we would have turned you to ash before you breached the front gate. No, Ser Templar, your actions are known in this house, and while I am not like these young bloods, commending you for massacring innocent people for an unjust cause, I understand the why of it.”

Samson snorted. “Even as you call me weak and cowardly.”

“Because you are.” Fasadé said simply. “You ran from your opportunity to stand against the Chantry, begging for lyrium in the streets. You ran from your opportunity to set things to right when the young mage destroyed the Chantry. You have run so much, Samson. And now, yoked to _her_ as you are, protector and lover alike…don’t look so indignant, I know it to be true…you run from the promise you made.”

“I made no promise.” Samson lied but swallowed it the next instant. “I broke it. I didn’t run. I simply wasn’t enough to protect her from herself.”

“No,” Fasadé agreed, “you were too full of self-doubt. But I think you’re well on your way to being the protector you were born to be. You have freed many mages from the Circle in your lifetime, some have even fled as far as here to study in peace, to hone their skills and turn their powers to do some good in this world. They’ve you to thank for that.”

“I failed Maddox.” Samson countered. “One mage who ever called me friend without so much as a blink. He was counting on me, and I failed him.”

“Did you?” She asked him, “You think because he was made Tranquil that you failed him? Did he not follow you out of Kirkwall? Did he not serve at your side during your time with Corypheus? And…” Fasadé leaned forward and Samson was startled by the almost preternatural gleam in her eyes, “In the final hour, when Hadiza was close at your heels, the Inquisition at her back, did your friend not sacrifice himself that you could remain safe? Even when you told him not to?”

Samson felt the wound, too deep to be fully healed, open anew, and the pain of losing Maddox to something as senseless as that hurt all over again. He sat still, felt a lump in his throat. Maddox had done what he thought was right at the time, had sought to protect Samson in the same way Samson protected him. He blinked, shut his eyes, and swallowed hard.

“Then you did not fail him.” Fasadé said, finding her answer. “Knowing that, do not say you have failed her either. She is alive. She is in pieces, but she is alive thanks to you. Do not let her pick up the pieces alone.”

Samson said nothing, trying in vain to close the wound Fasadé had opened with her words. He knew what she meant, and knew what he had to do, both for himself and for Hadiza. He took a deep, shuddering breath, exhaling slowly, ignoring the jagged bits of pain in his body from the corruption’s borders, lingering around healthy tissue, trying hard to kill him.

“I think we’ve done enough for tonight,” Fasadé said smiling, “but I will say this: let yourself hurt. Allow yourself the benefit of grieving, and be thankful that you live to do so. Many die without ever given a chance to grieve.”

“More wisdom from the family storyteller?” Samson asked bitterly. Fasadé grinned.

“No,” she laughed, “but you and my son are more alike than either of you would ever care to admit.”

Startled, Samson gave her a questioning look, but she did not answer, rising from her chair and reaching for her cane. Samson watched her go, and when her footsteps fade, he got up to leave.

He found his way back to Hadiza’s room, thankful not to have passed anyone in the quiet halls of the house. When he entered he was surprised to not find her already in bed, and glanced around. Her armor was on the stand, but her clothes were scattered on the bed, her boots kicked across the floor. Samson frowned, shutting the door behind him to make his way further inside. He began the process of picking up her clothes, folding them, when he heard a sharp, shuddering gasp from the wash room.

“Hadiza?” Samson called, dropping her clothes and heading toward the room.

He came up short when he opened the door and broken glass crunched beneath his feet. Hadiza stood amidst the shards, bloodied footprints leading away from the now shattered mirror. Her arms and torso were slashed at random, and in one hand she held a large shard, stained and smeared with blood. She stared at her refracted reflection, her face contorted in an anguish no one could fathom, her free hand, red with dried blood, holding her disheveled hair.

“Hadiza!” Samson cried and crossed the short distance to take the shard from her, finding her grasp loose, and tossing the shard aside.

“What the hell happened?” He demanded, gathering her up carefully, leading her out of the bathroom. She did not put up a fight, did not protest, did not rebuff him. “Maker! Hadiza…” He remembered Fasadé’s words, and it finally dawned on him what they meant.

In pieces. She was in pieces.

She began to sob.

* * *

 

**_10 Bloomingtide_ **

“Father, we cannot face her,” Babacar said, “not in her condition. Twice I have seen her in the arena, collapsing, swiping at ghosts long after the spar has been halted. She is unraveling at the seams for spirits’ sake!” Assane did not answer his son, nor did he deign to do aught else but sip his coffee, content in the knowledge that his initial judgement of his sister’s daughter was correct. Babacar seemed agitated at the realization.

“She’s been ridden,” he pleaded, “without proper training or the aftercare required when a spirit has vacated. We must help her.”

Assane still did not answer him.

“Father, I will not be party to murder for your inane pride!”

The silence seemed to take on its own tone, then, like the silence before a violent storm. Assane set down his coffee cup, placed his hands gently on the table, and stood up from his chair. He and Babacar were roughly the same height, and though Assane was well past middling years, he stood as erect and strong as his son, who was a spitting image of his younger self.

Thus, when Assane struck him with a force blast, he felt no guilt as his son sprawled along the floor, and immediately gained his footing. Instinct overrode filial piety, and years of training manifested in the appearance of glowing runes beneath each of his feet, and a ball of blue flame engulfing his right fist. Babacar’s body was poised and fraught with potential energy, a bow pulled at full draw, eager to be released. Assange’s eyes narrowed, and he stood, his hands at his sides, his expression wavering between aloof pride and tempered fury.

“Murder, Babacar?” He mused, “You have much to learn in the ways of this House if you are to be my successor. She has been allowed to stay by virtue of tradition and the good graces of my wife, and she has made the claim herself that she wishes to face you and the others in the pit to contend for her right to be claimed as a scion. She knows the traditions by way of her whore mother, who ran like a coward, taking our secrets and heirlooms with her. If she dies in that pit, then it is not murder. It will be simply that she was not strong or clever enough to make good on her claim.”

Babacar held his position a moment longer, and Assane dipped his head, silver eyes glittering in a silent invitation. After a moment, it seemed as if Babacar would take the invitation and fight his father, but the blue flame faded as he opened his hand, and the runes shrank beneath his feet as he stood upright, his posture relaxed.

“Father,” his tone was plaintive, “can you at the very least allow mother to treat her? Look at her…gods above, she’ll destroy herself long before she ever sets foot on the sands to face us.”

Assane seemed ready to strike his son once more, but the anger cooled quickly as reason prevailed over superstition and fury.

“Very well, then,” he said at last, “Djeneba may tend to her if it will ease your own mind and keep you focused on protecting what we have built.” Assane snorted derisively, adding, “It would seem your wife is more inclined to do that than you are.”

“My _wife_ ,” Babacar countered, “whom _you_ chose, father, predicates her loyalty on her envy and jealousy of her position. Should she prove not to be what you hoped her to be, how will your grudge against your sister hold up, then?”

Assane stalked toward his son with the ferocity and speed of a feline predator, and before Babacar could react, a vise-like grip closed over his throat. He felt the prickling of ice magic on his skin.

“Have a care how you speak, my son,” Assane’s voice was a blizzard building beneath the quiet danger of his tone, “and have a care with your position. It is more precarious than you realize. And since you have expressed such profound concern and interest in your lost cousin: _you_ will see to it that she is well-prepared for her trial.”

He released his son with a shove.

“Do hurry. Justinian is around the bend, and I’ll not post-pone the trial any longer this time around.”

Babacar rubbed at his throat, leaving the room with a dark look on his face. Assane watched him go, then turned to the window overlooking the sand pit.

“Maribasse,” he muttered, “even now your legacy comes back to poison our House. Let’s hope your spawn can prove herself worth the trouble or I’ll end your bloodline myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks the end of BOOK IV. Rivaini adventures are not done, but we're nearing the end of the story.
> 
> Sometimes, you can never tell when someone is suffering until you see them in their most private moments, when they think no one can see the stitches tearing and the seams ripping. PTSD is something I'm intimately familiar with, and even with the dichotomy of appearing fine on the surface and breaking to pieces on the inside. Self-harm and suicide are also scars I bear on my own soul. So this chapter, while not as long, is very important to me. -sigh- Now that I've cleared that up, onto the ending notes and translations:
> 
>  _Ƙaɗan-Ƙaɗan_ \-- Bit by bit or little by little. Now you all understand why I cackle every time Bull calls someone _kadan_. Despite the hooked letters in Hausa making it sound completely different, it still makes me giggle.
> 
> As always, leave your thoughts, critiques, and feelings in the comments. Be professional, use your good sense and critical thinking skills before commenting. ^_^


	30. BOOK V: In Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The best laid plans...

“You’re doing so well, now,” Djeneba’s voice was gentle, helping Hadiza focus, “now…try to isolate the muscle you wish to freeze and focus.” She watched as Hadiza concentrated, watched as the temperature around her dropped, her breath misting in the air, frost forming in a thin film along her hair, and the quiet crackle of ice forming. Djeneba felt her left index finger go numb and stiff with cold, and looked down, startled to see it encased in ice. Seated across from her, cross-legged and brow knit in concentration, Hadiza stared at nothing.

“Good,” Djeneba said, “now, let go. Gradual. Do not tear yourself away with violence. Instead, imagine a baby’s fist gently opening up to release its mother’s finger. Good, good. Now, draw back into yourself as I showed you.” Hadiza shut her eyes, breathing deep, and then exhaling slowly as the frost melted and faded. Djeneba wiggled her index finger, testing its dexterity as Hadiza opened her eyes.

“How do you feel?” Djeneba asked, which had become customary to the conclusion of every lesson. Hadiza was quiet a moment, still contained within herself, thinking, turning over in her head the new skill she’d just acquired.

“Better.” Hadiza said simply and Djeneba pressed no further. Some days were good, and others were bad. Some days, Hadiza was a veritable virtuoso with magic, weaving spells with an expert hand. Djeneba especially praised her work as a healer, able to mend the corporeal and the spirit without being invasive. Some days, Hadiza was husk-hollow, empty of tears, weary with a grief too heavy for her own slight shoulders to bear, but too ashamed and prideful to share the burden amidst her friends and family. On those days, she and Djeneba would simply sit in mutual silence while Hadiza attempted to make sense of her body and existence in the world around her. She would not speak, merely stare out of the window, listless and living in her own head. Djeneba only attempted to draw her out when she saw the cracks forming, mostly by reminding Hadiza that she had not touched the sweets on her plate, or that the apiary had produced another batch of honey to be bottled and sold at the market. Only then would Hadiza become responsive, smiling a dead woman’s smile, her eyes unfocused as she went through the motions of eating and drinking.

Babacar took up her magical combat training, and surprisingly, Hadiza took to it with the most relish anyone had seen in her for some time. He taught her the art of rune dancing, taking her through the motions of dances older than the land itself, and how to pull mana through music and dance. Hadiza made no attempts to sing the songs and chants, but she proved a formidable dancer. She learned the runes of ‘walking upon the flame’, marveling as they appeared beneath each of her booted feet, allowing her kicks to have the added damage of fire when they landed. She learned the runes of a ‘lightning clap’, watching as the runes of lightning appeared before her palms, giving her the power of a storm at her fingertips. Babacar taught her that every part of her body could become an outlet for her magic and that one did not need hands nor feet to exude it.

Hadiza learned to breathe fire by opening a rune before her lips and blowing through it. That, she liked best.

Babacar watched, quietly proud of the progress she made, and marveling at her strange staff, laughing when she collapsed it to a hafted blade, and extended it to a full partisan pole-arm. When Hadiza explained the origin of the weapon and how she came to possess it, he marveled, sharing the tale with Fasadé who committed it to memory.

All the while, Samson watched her progress, and monitored her health. He knew it was selfish of him to think that he missed her before the tragedy of her possession tore her apart. But he saw from the shattered pieces of her, that the woman he loved still glittered and shone. He saw it in the flashes of her rare smiles, in the grunt of effort as she trained and conditioned, in the days when she ate with a prodigious appetite. On occasion, he heard a laugh from her, quiet and weak, but there.

Alive, but in pieces.

Hadiza grew stronger in magic and combat both, and soon, Justinian was upon them.

Assane, who had been witnessing Hadiza’s progress, called her companions to his antechamber a few days before the bout was to be held.

Vivienne regarded him with the same pitiless disregard she regarded anyone she deigned beneath her notice. Assane’s arrogance and pride found no purchase amidst the ice-slick iron of the Orlesian enchantress. It unnerved him somewhat, but did not surprise him. She would have done well in House Fayé with that countenance.

“You all are aware of what this trial entails, I take it?” He asked, looking to each of them, his gaze lingering on Samson, who merely stared back, as impassive and recalcitrant as ever. Feynriel nodded.

“Yes,” he said, “and I take it you mean to warn us not to interfere, am I right?”

Assane’s lip curled briefly but he schooled his face to impregnable calm.

“Yes.” He said with begrudging approval, “Interference on either side is strictly forbidden. But barring that, I have also called you here to warn you. People have been known to die in this trial, although it is a rarity. Your Inquisitor may find herself severely injured.”

Vivienne laughed. “Are my ears deceiving me, Ser Fayé or are you trying to give us incentive to back out of this challenge?” She asked him with a shrewd perk of her brow.

“I am merely warning you,” Assane countered, “as I know her role in the south is vital to whatever cause the Chantry has saw fit to take up this time around. I say this so that in the event of her injury or death, I do not receive word that the armed forces of Andraste’s flock are marching toward my city.”

Samson frowned. “Inquisition isn’t the Chantry. They’ve got no authority to order an Exalted March.”

“Be that as it may,” Assane said forcefully, “I must protect the interests of my House and the people under my protection. The Inquisitor chose this challenge for herself, but I do not think she realized the odds were against her.”

“You still want us to back out?” Dorian asked incredulously, “My good man have you _met_ the Inquisitor? Does she seem the type to simply give up because the odds are not in her favor?”

Assane cast Dorian a withering glance, narrowing his eyes. Dorian merely smirked back.

“With all due respect,” Feynriel said, his voice quiet and calm, “Hadiza has defeated a total of ten dragons, a darkspawn magister, a dragon corrupted by the Blight, countless Red Templars, stymied a civil war in Orlais, captured several strongholds in Ferelden and Orlais, defeated a Titan, and stopped the Avvar from invading the lowlands. I think…in light of all of her achievements, she can handle four of your best warriors.”

Assane sneered. “She accomplished those deeds with friends and an army at her back. In the pit, she will be alone with none to rely on but the strength of her own training and her own wits. If she fails or perishes, you will find no succor within Zazzau’s walls.”

Samson wanted to spit in the man’s face, and he almost did, but decided against it.

Aja frowned, still silent. “You hate our mother—your sister—that much that you don’t even bat an eye in hoping my sister dies in this trial,” she murmured, “and I thought I was filled with bitterness toward a sibling.”

“Her crime was reprehensible.” Assane shot back, “And you’ve no place to speak here. You wear the tattoos of a _thief_. Vagabond battlemages selling out their skills to the highest bidder. You should be ashamed of yourself. Even Maribasse didn’t…”

Aja grinned, gold teeth glinting in the sunlight. “Oh, she did. How do you think she met my father, old man? I thought Rivain was supposed to be some heathen paradise where all were welcome. Isn’t that why the Chantry hated you all to begin with? And I’m not ashamed of my past. I’m more ashamed to come from such a long line of close minded assholes.”

Samson chuckled darkly. “Ain’t that the Maker’s honest truth.” He muttered, earning a glare from Assane.

“Your grudge aside,” Vivienne interjected coolly, “you have delivered the message you wished to deliver am I correct?”

Assane hesitated, unsure of how to respond to a woman whose temper did not so much as flicker the entire time she had been within his purview.

“Yes.” He said tersely. Vivienne turned to her companions.

“Then we shall go.” She said laconically, and turned to leave the room. By now, Samson understood the subtle, couched language that Vivienne used when speaking. He rose from his lean against the back of one of the couches and followed. Hesitating, Aja shot one last look at Assane, tinged with disappointment, before leaving with Dorian and Feynriel in tow.

“See you in the pit!” Feynriel said brightly, and Assane was unsure if the boy was being cheerful on purpose or mocking him.

* * *

Hadiza took a deep breath and inspected her weapon for the umpteenth time. The staff was a silverite, virtually unbreakable, but impossible to repair once damaged, and indeed she had wrapped its grip in dragon hide harvested from one of her conquests to cover up the nicks. The blade itself was steel, honed to a brutal edge, and embellished with engravings of intricate filigree along the center. At its base sat the focus, a fire opal as smooth as could be, catching the light and glittering with its own flame. Along the staff were runes, intricate spells she could unlock at will to shift the type of damage the weapon could do. It had served her well since the Circles fell and she found herself on the way to the Conclave. It served her well in every battle, never faltering, always reliable. If she needed a short sword, it collapsed into one. If she needed a pole-arm, it extended into one. The grip was certain, the metal undaunted, and Hadiza could not have asked for a better weapon.

“It’s a nice magic stick.” Samson’s voice pulled her from her reverie as her fingertips brushed over the flat of the blade, tracing the grooves of designs she knew by rote with her eyes closed. She glanced up at him, unsure.

“Did a number on me, at least.” He grinned at her, rubbing his jaw, indicating the tooth she’d knocked clear during their first battle. Hadiza allowed herself a small smile. Samson stayed where he was.

“May I?” He asked, indicating the cushion next to her. Hadiza nodded wordlessly and Samson sank to his knees, and then sat when his knees decided to protest the motion.

“You nervous?” He asked her and Hadiza huffed, smiling.

“No,” she said quietly, “very calm in fact. I guess part of me always knew this day would come.” Samson gave her an incredulous look.

“You got the gift of foresight now? You telling me you were just fighting me to prepare for this?”

Hadiza glanced at him sidelong and he grinned. She looked down at her hands, the palms cracked with calluses, and a criss-crossing of healing scars, more recent…and the Anchor.

“No.” She said again, “I mean I always knew I’d have to face an obstacle like this in some way. I just didn’t think it would be a literal fight.” She drummed her nails on the blade, the metallic staccato setting a rhythm for her thoughts, filling the silence between them.

“Hadiza…” Samson began while at the same time she said, “Samson…”

“Sorry,” he muttered, “you were saying?”

Hadiza smiled to herself. “If I lose, we have to vacate Zazzau and I can never come back here. All of the knowledge and wisdom of my mother’s family will be kept from me. And I’ll have nothing but my mother’s journal as the only connection to this place.”

Samson shifted in his seat, rubbing his lower back and stretching.

“Well what exactly were you hoping to find here?” He asked her and Hadiza turned to face him, her eyes clear, save for the shadow that passed through them like a cloud over the moon.

“I suppose, a place where I could truly belong. A home that would not cast me out. Somewhere I could anchor myself…sanctuary to run to when all else failed to offer anything.” She said softly, lowering her gaze. Samson understood her in that moment in a way he understood nothing else. He had not felt _home_ in his bones in over a decade. Kirkwall had been home once, as terrible as it was, but that was an old life…almost a dream life, lost in a haze of crimson. He wagered Hadiza had not felt home in her bones in some time either.

“Skyhold isn’t home,” she said, as if reading his thoughts, “I thought it could be, but part of me always knew it was a temporary place. Sooner or later, I will have to leave it behind. And Ostwick…” She looked away, remembering. The good, the bad, the lost.

“You think you could make a home here?” Samson asked her, “Be done with the Inquisition and disappear into the northern lands?”

Hadiza met his gaze. “Maybe. I had hoped…” She stopped herself. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is I finish what I started.”

Samson wanted to say more, do more, and he felt as if he were made of smoke and she was a brisk wind, sweeping him away.

“Remember what I taught you,” he said with a grin, “put your hands on them and get dirty. Make ‘em feel it.” Hadiza returned his grin, a ray of the sun poking holes in the clouds after a storm.

“You can count on that.”

* * *

The day of the trial, it seemed as its all of Zazzau had been invited to attend. The rules were clear in that any could come to witness the trial of lost members of the Fayé line returning to claim their birthright. Still, to see so many people seated in the stands around the pit, eager and gossiping, Hadiza wondered not for the first time if her bravado had carried her too far. She had been quick and defiant to claim her right to inherit before the assembled peerage of House Fayé, thinking the trial would be a quick and private thing.

But now, before such a wide audience, she felt her courage falter.

“It’s a fucking bluff,” Samson said as he and the others helped Hadiza get into her armor, “he wants the entire city to see you get your ass handed to you so that no one will give us shelter when it’s time to leave.”

Hadiza groaned in annoyance, fastening on a vambrace, securing her gloves.

“Not only that,” Dorian chimed in, helping her secure her weapon, “if you lose, he will have much to boast about. Defeating the long arm of the Chantry and sending us packing? I’m sure many in Zazzau would live for that kind of humiliation.”

Vivienne watched, her expression unreadable. Feynriel idly toyed with the hem of his sleeve. All of them had been given Rivaini finery to wear for the occasion. Fine damask silk grand _boubou_ with stiff embroidery along the collar and edges of the wide, voluminous sleeves for the men paired with a hand-embroidered cap called an _aso oke_. For the women, they were given a loose and airy dress called an _abaya_ , paired with an elaborate headdress called a _gele_ , made of a stiffened silk-like cloth. Vivienne had taken to the art of wrapping it with the practiced ease of one born to it, while Aja struggled to create an artistic shape atop her head, and settled on a simpler wrap, the vines tendrils of her hair sprouting from atop the wrap, embellished with gold clasps. Samson scratched at his neck, and not for the first time, feeling naked without armor or sword at his disposal. Feynriel seemed content, having taken to Rivain like one born and bred to the land, and Dorian wore the finery as if he were one of the nobles of the House and not its guest.

Only Hadiza stood armored. No one offered her a mirror to see herself, and as she struggled to braid her hair, Vivienne wordlessly stood to help her, binding her hair with deft hands into a single plait, and pinning it up. Gently, she swept the errant locks of hair behind Hadiza’s ears, moving with careless grace to face her.

“There you are, my dear.” She said, smiling, “To victory.”

“Or at the very least a dignified defeat,” Dorian said, earning a glare from the enchantress. Hadiza smiled, gripped her staff a little tighter, and listened to the roar of the crowd outside, the primordial rhythm of drums, and for a moment she forgot herself. The trial was grueling, she knew, but it was first and foremost a time for celebration, as most Rivaini customs tended to be. Flanked by her friends and her sister, Hadiza made her way through the winding halls of the immense mansion, toward the fighting pit. The cheers grew louder, and servants of House Fayé darted nimbly, likely in preparations for the feast and celebration that would take place for the family long into the night following the trial’s conclusion.

The twins, Amadou and Musa, found Hadiza before she stepped outside, both of them smiling identical smiles, lending a playful devilishness to their youthful faces.

“So tonight you go and face destiny, lost cousin,” Amadou laughed, “we have put our money on you this night!”

Hadiza smiled tightly. “How thoughtful,” was all she said. “You are hedging bets against my defeat.”

Musa clapped her on the shoulder. “Not to worry, lost cousin!” He laughed good-naturedly, “We have heard tell of your deeds in the south! Ten dragons! And you have fought the ghoulish ones without becoming poisoned by their blood!”

Amador chimed in. “Is it true you seduced the Empress of Orlais into a treaty with Ferelden?”

Musa laughed before Hadiza could answer. “Do Fereldans really fuck their dogs? Ah ah! Can you imagine?”

Hadiza’s mouth opened, then closed. Samson chuckled to himself. Aja had tears leaking from her eyes, her grin split wide across her face as she struggled to hold in her laughter. Feynriel squinted, trying to make sense of their thick accents. Vivienne’s nose wrinkled at the vulgarity while Dorian looked highly amused.

“I…” Hadiza managed to say, before sighing. “I can regale you with tales of my deeds after the trial.” The twins laughed as she and her friends walked off.

“But truly,” Aja said as they stepped out into the heavy heat of dusk, “do Fereldans fuck their dogs?”

Samson laughed again. “Wish I could tell you. Maybe Cullen knows.” He said and he and Aja both broke into laughter at the thought of Cullen’s indignant sputter.

“The bar for humor is far too low tonight.” Vivienne said shortly.

 

* * *

 

When Hadiza stepped onto the sands after her name and title were announced and her lineage declared before all assembled, there was a lull in the roar of the crowd. It was a sort of weight that bowed the celebratory tone in the stands, the weight of _The Inquisitor_ and all that entailed for the people of Zazzau. Hadiza felt small amidst the watchful eyes of the people, of House Fayé, and more recently, another noble House that had been invited to attend. The sands crunched beneath her boots, still warm from the heat of the day, and Thedas’ moons hung overhead, partially obscured by wispy clouds that passed swiftly in a cool breeze. Her friends had already been led to a place in the stands, and she stood alone in a battlefield of her own choosing.

It felt strange, after so long fighting cheek and jowl with her companions, to stand alone and face an unknown opponent.

Hadiza did not look down, and instead, turned a slow circuit to look upon the people of Zazzau, upon the silver-eyed members of her distant family, and there other haughty nobles clad in finery, attended to by servants with fans made of dark, shining feathers, and platters of fresh cut mangos, and goblets of chilled wine. Their faces were as impassive as she expected them to be, and Hadiza felt as if the noble blood which flowed in her veins was as plain and unremarkable as an actual commoner in their eyes. Who was she to claim a birthright to such an ancient and insular people? What right did she have to bridge the gap between her mother’s legacy and House Fayé’s future? She was only here because her mother’s journal had begged—no, _implored_ —her to rectify what she had ruined.

Hadiza gripped her staff, and asked herself for the first time what in the Void she was even doing there.

And then her opponents came into her field of vision, four of them, tall and well-muscled, clad in that strange lightweight armor like the one in her mother’s chest. Hadiza grew wary, felt her senses grow tense with alertness. As they walked further into the pit, Hadiza assessed her opponents even better.

Babacar was the only one whom she recognized outside of his usual finery, having trained with him many weeks past, and while he had been all smiles and amicability before, she saw no trace of that in him at that moment. He carried no weapon that she could see, and so she turned her attentions to his wife, Oluremi. She stood shorter than House Fayé, petite and dark, but no less vicious in her open disdain for Hadiza. At her back, rising over either shoulder was the hilt of a pair of daggers of forearm length. For a moment, Hadiza was confused, and then turned her attention to the other two warriors.

Mimunatu stood calmly, her arms at her sides, her face obscured by a mask, and Hadiza was hilariously reminded of the Winter Palace in Orlais. The mask was so eerily similar to the ones she’d seen while there, only it was plumed with the same deep colored feathers she saw on the fans the servants used. The plumes spread all around the mask, giving her the stoic appearance of life-like statuary. Her bare arms were covered in whorls of intricate tattoos, from her fingers and clear beyond her shoulders, vanishing beneath her cuirass. Hadiza swallowed hard as the roar of the crowd served to drown out her mounting apprehension.

A wild laugh startled her, and her gaze snapped to the source quickly. The fourth warrior lumbered rather than walked, and the firelight and moonlight glinted off of the silverite claws that passed for hands on Ajisayé. She had wild hair, curly and unkempt, and Hadiza knew without needing a closer look that Ajisayé was a Reaver. She stood up straight, her grin unnerving, deepening the lines in her face, running the tip of her tongue along her sharp little teeth in anticipation.

“ _Za a fara_!” Assane’s voice boomed, and the roar of the crowd went up as the fighters closed in on Hadiza.

She called upon lessons from everyone who had ever imparted knowledge to her, and what she had learned in the long hard year she’d spent fighting as the Inquisitor. She kept eyes on each of her opponents, silently cursing Assane for not informing her that she would face them down all at once. It was Ajisayé who moved first, and Maker she was _nimble_. The woman leapt, muscles in her bared thighs bunching and coiling as she sprung into the air, bearing down on Hadiza with her claws. Hadiza blocked with one vambrace, and leapt out of the way of the next attack. Ajisayé was relentless, swiping and grunting, and Hadiza stuck her staff in the ground, using it as a fulcrum to swing around. She barely brought it back up in time to block Oluremi’s assault, as she wove slashing patterns with her daggers, the force of them not as violent, but so relentless that Hadiza had to keep spinning her staff to block.

She was pinned between Ajisayé and Oluremi, blocking one and then the other, and then she heard a whistle and crack in the air. All three women looked up, and then leapt away as the length of a silverite chain, snapped the sands where they’d been standing. Mimunatu jerked the chain back and Hadiza caught a glimpse of the wicked disk-like blade on the end of it.

 _Shit_. She thought, and then heard Babacar’s grunt as he came down. She leapt out of the way, watched as his stone fist practically left a crater where she’d just been standing, and then swiped with the wicked blade of her staff to cut in half and dispel the stone fist he launched at her soon after. But he was fast, coming up behind, rock armor over his fist. Hadiza dove aside, coming up to find Oluremi weaving death in front of her again, and no doubt imagining with relish the thought of Hadiza’s vulnerable flesh caught between the wicked spires of her blades. Hadiza was just as quick, and the fight between them was fearsome before she knocked Oluremi aside, feinting a jab, then turning her blade to strike with the flat of it, sending the other woman sprawling.

Ajisayé tackled her from behind, and Hadiza watched her staff clatter from her grip, turning as she and the wild Reaver rolled in the sands. The Reaver pinned her, and she made biting motions, trying to tear at Hadiza’s face.

Hadiza smashed her head into Ajisayé’s skull, a painful and uncomfortable experience for both of them, but the spray of blood from the other woman’s nose was satisfying, until Hadiza remembered she was a Reaver.

“Shit.” Hadiza said, this time aloud. She rolled them both over, snatching her knife from her boot to plant in the sand beside Ajisayé’s throat, stilling the woman.

“Stay down.” Hadiza said, and felt the full impact of Mimunatu’s weapon as it struck her head, sending her sprawling. She scrambled up to her feet, disoriented for a moment, blood pouring from her head, and watched as the weapon came back around for another go. Without thinking, Hadiza pulled from her mana, dropped to one knee and covered herself in rock armor.

This was going to be a long night.

 

 

“That fucker said nothing about pitting her against four people!” Aja growled, “What in the Void does he expect her to do? They’re working in concert to beat her!” Samson said nothing, watching intently from their place in the stands, as the fight unraveled before them. He saw Hadiza crouch and turn to stone, saw the wicked blade of the flail-like weapon glance off the defensive stone-like skin in a spray of sparks, and then watched Hadiza clamber up and run toward Oluremi, engaging her again.

“See? Right there! Oluremi is trying to kill her! That’s not…!”

The tables turned, and for a moment, Samson felt his breath hitch. Hadiza was a cunning warrior, he knew, and her footwork was light for a mage, making her hard to hit by virtue that she worked to be where the blows didn’t land. But he also knew she had a tendency to hesitate. It wasn’t by that much a margin, but it was just enough that an enemy far more cunning than she could hook in and pry open the weakness to full exposure.

Thus far, she hadn’t hesitated, and her enemies were spaced out enough that she did not need to think much faster than the next four moves. But as she felled the Reaver, who was blood-drunk from her injury, it gave the other three time to close in on her.

Samson saw the pattern in full as it began to reveal itself.

“Shit.” He muttered, watching as Oluremi kept Hadiza busy, fighting fiercely but Samson saw something reserved in her stances and postures. She would tease Hadiza out of her sphereof defense, feigning fatigue, only to “catch” a second wind and press forward again.

“No,” Samson said, “no, princess. Don’t let her fuckin’ play you like that.” He gripped the edge of the bench tightly. Vivienne lay a hand on his arm.

“Patience, Samson,” she said, “I’ve a feeling we are still in for a surprise.”

Samson glanced sidelong at Vivienne, who kept her eyes on the arena, a contented smile on her face. He followed her gaze and continued to watch.

 

 

Physical exertion aside, Hadiza saw instantly that Oluremi was not only a formidable swordsman, but a formidable mage as well. She slammed both of her daggers back into the sheaths on her back and took up casting instead. Hadiza’s shield held as she countered with her staff. They moved in an intricate dance, alternating between magical combat and physical combat, and Hadiza barely dodging attacks from her assailants.

 _I have to knock them unconscious_. Hadiza thought, ducking beneath the lash of Mimunatu’s whip-like weapon, keenly aware of the snap of the air as it passed. _I have to knock them unconscious, but how?_

“Babacar!” Oluremi called, and it seemed to Hadiza as if she might have been winning. Sweat poured along her temples, mingling with the dried blood on her face, her eyes stinging with salt. Babacar cast a spell and Hadiza at first thought it was a glyph meant to disable her.

What she witnessed nearly cost her the fight.

The glyph spread beneath Babacar’s feet, glowing with a faint tinge of violent, and flaring.

And then he simply, sank into the ground, vanishing.

Hadiza blinked, and then a glow overhead alerted her. The glyph—or rather its compliment—opened above her head and out came Babacar. She leapt forward, tucking and rolling as she came up. Ajisayé was upon her, slashing, the repeated impact jarring Hadiza. The fight took on an earnest tone, and it became apparent that Hadiza was largely outclassed. Somewhere in the stands, amidst other members of House Fayé, Assane was smiling.

“They’re going to destroy her.” Aja said, “Are we just going to let this happen? She needs help? Did you _see_ what that asshole did?”

“Yes.” Dorian said, fascinated, “And I for one am dying to know how he did it.”

Samson felt his breathing grow more frantic as the fight took a turn none of them could have predicted. He had never even _heard_ of such magic, let alone see it. The ability to travel through objects only to…he couldn’t wrap his head around it.

Even Vivienne’s smile had faded in the wake of the spell they’d witnessed.

And then Hadiza’s guard faltered.

Babacar penetrated her guard easily, his stone-encased fist striking her chest, sending the air rushing from her lungs. She stumbled backward as Oluremi’s fists glowed. She struck Hadiza across the face in a series of punches that dizzied her, then grabbed both sides of Hadiza’s head to bring her face crashing to her knee. As Hadiza’s staff dropped from nerveless fingers, she stumbled again. Babacar’s arms wrapped around her torso, bending backward and slamming Hadiza into the dirt. The crowd roared. Mimunatu’s chain wrapped around Hadiza’s ankles and Samson and the others watched, horrified as she was cast upward, only to have Ajisayé leap to slash at her face.

Mimunatu yanked her back down, and Hadiza slammed into the sand with a final crash.

A hush fell over the crowd as the four warriors gathered around the dent Hadiza’s body had made in the sand. She lay still, even as Mimunatu retrieved the length of her whip, the mask impassive as she looked down at her fallen enemy. Oluremi looked grimly satisfied, hands on her hips, and only Babacar seemed to look remotely sympathetic.

Hadiza did not get up, and that was when Aja reacted. Before Dorian, Feynriel, or Samson could stop her, she leapt over the stands, bypassing guards to run into the pit. The four warriors watched Aja’s sprint, her _abaya_ tearing at the side as she widened her stride.

“Hadiza!” Aja screamed, frantic. Seeing no one to stop her, Samson and the others followed. Even Vivienne’s normally cool exterior was breached by worry.

“Hadiza, please…Maker…!!” Aja’s voice grew more hysterical as she gingerly lifted Hadiza’s still form to her. The rock armor crumbled, revealing the vulnerable woman beneath. Her hair was crusted with blood, and a dried trail of blood stained the corner of her mouth and caked at her nostrils. Her right eye was already beginning to swell shut. Aja placed her finger beneath Hadiza’s nose, praying to any deity that would listen.

There, amidst the cooling night, a warm, moist ghost of a breath upon her skin.

Hadiza was alive, but badly wounded.

“She’s alive.” Aja said to the others as they joined her, “She’s alive. But barely.”

Babacar took a step forward and Aja’s gaze stymied him, silver tinged with crimson.

“Not another step!” She shouted at him, “Stay away from her!”

Babacar seemed torn between defying her, and not testing the Reaver before him, decked in finery or no.

“She needs a healer, Aja,” Babacar said gently, “please…allow our healers to tend to her.”

“You will address me as Lady Trevelyan,” Aja snapped, “as is befitting a woman of my station and noble birth! We are not beggar and paupers on your damned doorstep! We are not beneath you!”

Vivienne lifted her chin slowly, her approval made clear.

Babacar frowned. “Aja, please. If we don’t get Hadiza to a healer, now, she might not make it. Her injuries are severe.”

“I say let her die,” Oluremi said nastily, “she wanted the challenge and now she reaps what she decided to sow. Let her bear the price of her arrogance.”

“Another word from you, Oluremi,” Babacar said, “and you will find your place in this house drastically altered.”

Oluremi’s lip curled, but she said nothing further. Feynriel knelt next to Aja, placing a hand gently on her shoulder.

“Aja,” he said, “listen to him. We need to get her to a healer immediately.”

Aja relented after a moment, nodding silently, leaning over to press a kiss to her sister’s forehead. Babacar summoned the guards, who came out onto the sands with a litter. Aja remained on her knees for a moment as they loaded Hadiza onto it, and then stood, following with the others as Hadiza was carried off.

The Right of Inheritance was finished. The clouds relinquished their rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Za a fara_ \- Begin.
> 
> As always, leave thoughts, critique, feelings, etc...below, in the comment box. Props to anyone who can guess what battle I based the fight scene off of.


	31. Sararin Sama

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's light on the proverbial horizon. But first, an example needs to be made. Trigger warning for emotional and physical abuse, and I guess we can label what Hadiza does in this chapter as sadistic revenge torture.

The darkness took her under, a wave breaking over her, its currents sweeping her further out. She curled in on herself, letting it carry her where it willed.

 _Hadiza_.

The voice was muffled, and yet she heard her name clearly.

 _Leave me alone_. Was her only thought. She curled in on herself again. The voice returned, a bit clearer, as if it were following her to whatever oblivion she sought. Hadiza wished desperately to lack awareness.

_It’s time to come back._

_No._ She thought irritably. _I’m tired. I’m done. I can do no more._

The voice was quiet for a moment, and she was aware of the impression of gentle fingertips on her shoulders. The voice came again, clear, feminine, husky and familiar. Hadiza blinked in the darkness.

_They need you, my heart. And your greatest challenge is as yet on the horizon._

Hadiza opened her eyes, and squinted against sunlight. She looked around, and became all at once aware of the pain her body was in. Muscles stiff from exertion were now simply sore to move, and she breathed shallowly, for any deeper would send a sharp bitting pain through her ribs. She reached up to touch her right eye, finding the flesh tender and bruised. Her nose was also very tender and bruised, and she made several attempts to sit up, arms trembling before she gave up and sighed, wincing from the sharp pain in her ribs.

Dorian turned a page in the book he was reading, and looked over to her.

“Oh, good,” he said in his usually haughty tone, “you’re finally awake. I was beginning to wonder if you were going to be a layabout for the rest of the week.” Hadiza said nothing but his smile, which was gentle on the edges, was echoed in the tremulous attempt to smile back.

“Dorian,” her voice was feeble and hoarse, “how badly did my ass get kicked?”

Dorian shut his book, leaning back in the chair. “Well, let us say that your defeat was not as dignified as we agreed upon. So in that you disappointed me. But…”

“Dorian.” Hadiza said warningly and he sighed.

“Babacar has been arguing with his father for several days regarding the trial.” Dorian explained. “He says you were no where near prepared to face any of them in battle, and that you had not been given enough time to recover beforehand. Frankly, as unusually pretentious as your lost family is, I’m inclined to agree.”

Hadiza looked away, saying nothing.

“There was no way you could have prepared to face four different opponents at once. Especially not opponents who could cast like that.”

Hadiza scoffed. “So it wasn’t a dream, then. He really…did whatever that was.”

Dorian set the book on the bedside table. “And refuses to tell me, the brute! I have heard only rumors of such magic existing and even then, it was mostly theory, something old tenured mages dreamed up in hopes of solving the mystery of how ancient elves traveled.”

“You mean the eluvians.” Hadiza said quietly. Dorian nodded.

“Yes. But even so, it didn’t operate same way as an eluvian. I am going to speculate and say that there is something less complex at work, but I can’t even begin to solve the mystery unless I’ve something to work with. Now you must tell me, —“

“Dorian.” Vivienne’s voice was steely from the doorway. “That’s quite enough. I’m sure there will be time enough for whatever magical studies you wish to conduct, but not at this time.”

Dorianfrowned. “There is always time, Madame de Fer,” he protested, “and think of how much we could learn from these Rivaini battlemages. How much we could augment our own abilities with their techniques. Why, I’d wager they’ve some written material on the mat—“

“Dorian.” Vivienne’s voice was steel limned in frost, the threat of a whip about to crack and Dorian fell silent. Looking down at Hadiza, he sighed, wistful and disappointed.

“Well, I am afraid priceless discoveries must wait,” he said dramatically, “apparently there are more important matters than expanding one’s magical repertoire.” He leaned in, dropping a chaste kiss to Hadiza’s crown and took his leave. Vivienne did not watch him go but proceeded to approach Hadiza’s bed. Hadiza herself did not move, and seemed to be staring at nothing in particular.

“I have it on good authority that there was a degree of dishonesty regarding your trial, my dear,” Vivienne began, standing before the chair Dorian previously occupied. She debated whether or not to sit, and after a moment, turned and sat primly, crossing her legs at the ankles. She had long since doffed her hennin, revealing the soft, short curls of her shaven head.

“That so?” Hadiza murmured, “Guess my ass-kicking was a bit harsh.”

“Language.” Vivienne scolded and Hadiza turned her head to stare at her wearily, one eye bruised, the other looking no better for all her exhaustion. Vivienne softened somewhat, sighing.

“I’m sorry, darling,” she said gently, “it did not become me. You’ve already been through more than enough since we left Skyhold.” Hadiza blinked, turning her gaze to the ceiling.

“And now it’s time to go home.” She said simply. Vivienne’s expression took on one of sympathy, knowing the price Hadiza paid to utter those words. To have worked so hard and gained nothing. Vivienne understood that more than most.

“Perhaps,” she said, “your cousin Babacar has been arguing with his father for days, now. It is an old story: the old beliefs clashing with the new, with no signs of a compromise in sight. Babacar wishes to shirk the traditions and give you another chance to prove yourself. Assane wants us gone and order restored, such as it was.”

“I’m done.” Hadiza said flatly. Vivienne’s brows raised, but she did not answer. Hadiza struggled to sit up again, and found her own anger lending her the strength to drag herself upright, her ribs burning from the effort. After a few pained, labored breaths, she sighed. Vivienne moved to help arrange the pillows behind her back, but Hadiza waved her off.

“I am tired, Vivienne,” Hadiza said, her voice guileless, naked in its vulnerability, “I have been possessed, ridden as the Rivaini seers say, by a powerful demon, one I had to slay in the Fade with my own hands to free myself. And yet, I still see it when I shut my eyes, when I’m fighting, when I’m awake, or when I sleep. And I have been thrashed by my mother’s family, verbally and physically, and my cousin’s wife wished death upon me.”

Vivienne’s brow furrowed. “Hadiza…”

Hadiza found the strength to be angry. “Don’t. I…I’m sorry I dragged you all out here on what I now know was a fool’s errand. I was…I was a fool to come here. I see that, now.”

Vivienne said nothing, knowing it would be unwise to do so, and merely watched her friend closely. Hadiza bit her dry and bruised lip, blinking rapidly and swallowing hard, looking away. Vivienne decided then that steel was more preferable and much more needed than velvet, and so she set her expression into the hard, angular lines of _Madame de Fer_ , and spoke.

“You played a game, Hadiza,” she said coolly, “and you lost. If this is how you react to losing a mere game, then perhaps you are no more fit to be the Inquisitor than I am fit to be the Empress.”

“And what would you have me do, Vivienne?” Hadiza snapped with steel of her own, “I squandered my only chance.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Vivienne scoffed, “there is never only one chance. And perhaps you need to shake the game board in your favor.” Vivienne stood, taking a moment to straighten her clothes and smooth any wrinkles before sighing.

“You are the Inquisitor,” Vivienne continued, making her way toward the door, “and the only one who holds sway over you is you. Remember it.”

Hadiza watched her go sullenly, then turned her gaze to her hands.

* * *

“You were out of line, Oluremi,” Babacar said, “and while you fought honorably, your words and intentions were less than. That is not the Fayé way.” Oluremi made a sound sucking through her teeth.

“I am but Fayé in name only,” she sneered, “and your family only values me so long as I exhibit the much-needed seer abilities you prize so dearly. It is you all who need me.”

“Yes,” Mimunatu said lazily, “we are all very much aware that you are House Fayé’s last hope of finding a seer of noble blood to succeed Djeneba. However, accidents do happen and there are no shortages of mages in Rivain. Even the Annulment of Dairsmuid could not stymie their numbers.”

Oluremi turned, lip curling. “Mind your tongue, Mimunatu,” she snarled, “or I will freeze it.”

Mimunatu laughed, rolling her eyes behind her mask, a less dramatic version than the one she wore in battle. Oluremi’s hands glowed ominously, and were suddenly snuffed out as Nadja entered the room.

“Lies do not become you.” She said simply, and the others looked at the floor as Nadja’s presence to seem to pull all tension toward her, small a she was. She regarded them carefully, from Babacar, Oluremi, Mimunatu, and Ajisayé. She seemed to be weighing them for some final assessment or judgement, but then she smiled, a slow thing, like the artful spill of blood from a clean cut.

“I did not train you all to fight from the time your were children only to have you bicker with one another, now.” She said, “But if a lesson in teamwork is needed, then I would be more than willing to oblige you. Do I need to oblige you?”

The three Fayé warriors hesitated, but Oluremi remained sullen and defiant, and Nadja’s dark eyes turned hard, her smile fading, as if someone wiped the fog from a mirror to reveal the ugly reflection behind.

“Well?” She asked, and her voice like a silken bind around their throats, pulling tight, “Do I?”

“No, mistress,” they answered in unison, years of training thundering into place of youthful pride, “that won’t be necessary.”

Nadja smiled, and it seemed different, almost warmer, but not quite.

“Good.” She said appraisingly, “Now, let’s discuss the matter of your behavior, Oluremi.”

“I don’t see how that’s necessary.” She said contemptuously, and no sooner had the words left her mouth did Nadja cross the room in silence, as quick as a shadow fleeing the light, and Oluremi had no time to react as she heard only the hiss of steel derailing from its sheath before she was on her hands and knees. Before she could get up, the cold flat of her own dagger pressed against her cheek, the edge just beneath her ear.

Nadja _tsked_ in disappointment. “Oluremi, you shame your house and House Fayé, whom you were so quick to boast about needing you. I would hate to make Babacar a widower this early in his marriage.” The blade slid with a feather’s gravity along Oluremi’s cheek and Nadja’s boot planted in her back, forcing her further down, cheek on the floor. Then she knelt, putting the weight of her knee in Oluremi’s back.

“If you ever deign to be so disrespectful to me again, I will cut something off next time,” Nadja murmured calmly, “and I promise you by the time I am done, you will be good for nothing but providing House Fayé with an heir. Do I make myself clear?”

Oluremi was quiet, defiant to the last. She felt the sting of the blade, felt a warm trickle of blood behind her ear.

“Your failure to comply will be sown into the flesh, Oluremi,” Nadja said, “do I make myself clear?”

Oluremi thought of remaining silent, but then shut her eyes.

“Yes, mistress.” She said through gritted teeth and suddenly Nadja’s weight was free from her back, and the dagger stuck back in its sheath. When she rose, Nadja stood in her place by the door.

“Now,” she said, “the matter of Hadiza will soon be at its end. I expect you all to help me in the work of seeing the intruders out, yes?”

“Of course,” Babacar said, “but…” Nadja’s gaze settled on him, but her smile remained and he felt as if there were something _else_ watching him from behind her dark eyes.

“We know the fight was an unfair one,” Babacar continued, “and Hadiza’s mental state was…not at its best. Could we not give her another chance? Is she not worth that much?”

Nadja nodded. “Wise words, Babacar. Your mother must be proud. But if Hadiza is given another opportunity to fight you all, I can promise that you will fall before her easily.”

Mimunatu scoffed. “As if she could ever. The stories of her deeds and abilities were greatly exaggerated.”

“And yet there is a dead darkspawn magister in the ruins of the Temple of the Sacred Ashes of Andraste,” Nadja countered, “and even now I hear tell dragon skull trophies line the walls of her great hall. At the center of every exaggeration there is a grain of truth.”

Oluremi crossed her arms. “Do you not have faith in our ability to win a second time?”

Nadja shifted her gaze to Oluremi, who visibly hesitated beneath the weight of it.

“Are you so eager for another fight.”

“I know I am.” Ajisayé said, spearing a mango at the end of one of her silverite claws. “But we could always wait until some other lost Fayé child comes stumbling onto our doorstep, half-possessed. Personally, I want to fight the tall one. She looks like a challenge.”

Nadja laughed. “And I assure you, she is. As humble as this group attempts to come off, they are not to be trifled with.”

“Be that as it may,” Babacar said, “I still believe Hadiza deserves another chance to win her place amidst our ranks.”

Nadja sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“You are determined to do this, eh?”

Babacar and the others shared a glanced before answering, “Yes, mistress.”

Nadja rolled her shoulders, easing the tension from tight muscles as she let out a slow exhale.

“Very well. I shall appeal to Lord and Lady Fayé for another bout. On your heads be the consequences, however.”

* * *

Assane was furious. Even when the terms had been clear, something ruled in favor of Maribasse’s children being permitted to stay. Even Djeneba had rallied against him, and the twins, while playful, begged for another show, if only to line their pockets with the winnings of those who bet against them. He was harangued in the council chamber by the family, who saw the state Hadiza had been in prior to the fight, the ordeal she’d faced in being ridden by a spirit, and his reluctance to allow her proper care afterward. And now Nadja herself, the small, dark woman who had trained his scions from childhood to be the ruthlessly efficient fighters, seemed to want Hadiza to be given a second chance as well, in full health, and with proper preparation.

In the end, he summoned his four warriors to the chamber to speak for themselves.

Babacar’s stance was made clear, as was Ajisayé’s. Mimunatu was indifferent, but would accept a second challenge either way. Only Oluremi seemed to voice dissent, citing that she had beaten Hadiza fairly, and it was no one’s fault but the Inquisitor’s that she had not properly prepared herself.

“You know that for a lie, Oluremi,” Babacar argued back, “she did not know she would have to face us all at once, nor is she familiar with our magics.”

“She seemed _quite_ familiar with the rudiments of your magics, husband mine,” Oluremi shot back snidely, “perhaps you only wish to have this next bout to spend more time ‘teaching’ her.”

“You dare?” Babacar’s voice rose, “You dare to insinuate that I would be so disgusting as to—“

“Enough!” Assane yelled, “For spirits’ sake the two of you have only recently been married. Arguments of this nature are reserved for veterans like myself. If this is what we have to look forward to then I will find someone else to inherit when I pass over!”

Babacar and Oluremi fell silent, looking away from one another sullenly.

“Now,” Assane continued, rubbing his temples, “it seems the vast majority of you think me some sort of monster for pitting my sister’s daughter against my finest warriors. I say in my defense that it has always been so.”

“And who are you to say, my son?” Fasadé interjected from the doorway, leaning on her cane. Heads bowed instantly, with older members bent slightly at the waist, and younger members prostrating and kneeling in deference and reverence. Fasadé made her way slowly into the council chamber, her wooden cane, carved from one of the branches of the blessed baobab in Seere, tapped the marble floor with each step she took.

“Who are you to say?” She asked again, “Is it not I who keeps the histories of our House intact? Have I not apprentices I train to carry on this legacy when I am gone?” She eyed everyone in the room like a mother looking upon children, and even Assane looked towered three feet over her at the very least. Fasadé sucked her teeth when he knelt, seeking to kiss her hand in greeting. She snatched her hand away and swatted his bald head instead.

“I’ve no time for your plaintive cajoling.” She snapped, “You harp and harp about tradition and yet you attempt to usurp power from your wife, an officiated and veteran seeress, and rightful ruler of this House. You declared your sister anathema for her betrayal, yet deny her daughters the right to come home. A right they are every bit as entitled to as you are to be patriarch.”

Assane opened his mouth to protest but Fasadé thumped her cane.

“It is this rigid line of thinking that has seen our influence and power shrink and wane,” she chided, “and now we have the opportunity to make our influence known, and you cling to the old ways even as they crumble beneath your weight!”

She hissed again. “When was the last time a member of House Fayé was seated on the Queen’s council? When was the last time a member of House Fayé was called to train the battle mages of the Queen’s ranks? You rest on the laurels of old victories even when there are much-needed changes to be made.”

“But if she integrates into the House,” Assane protested quietly, “she could upset the line of succession that has been established through me.”

Fasadé looked down at her son. “So you admit the root of your prejudice lies in your grasp at holding onto power through your children? Has it ever occurred to you to ask Hadiza what she wanted in this? Why she would subject herself to such treatment? What need has the Inquisitor for a position as matriarch of House Fayé?”

Assane was quiet. Fasadé stared at him a moment longer before turning her gaze back to the assembly.

“There will be another trial.” She said in a tone that brooked no room for protestation, “And it will be fought fairly and amidst the audience of peers of Rivain, and not the damned carnival spectacle of having the townsfolk streaming through. We are not Tevinter, who sell bloodsport as entertainment. This is a sacred rite, and will be treated accordingly.”

She turned to Djeneba, who bowed reverently before her mother-in-law, hiding her smile.

Fasadé smiled to. “Now, see to it that the Inquisitor makes a full recovery. She is stronger than she knows. We just have to get her to believe it.”

“At once, your eminence.” Djeneba said with scarce-concealed delight. Fasadé hobbled back toward the door, aided by two of her apprentices.

She did not ask if there were any objections. Of those, there were none.

* * *

“So they’re giving her another shot?” Aja asked. “What? Did their conscience only activate when they saw how they’d beaten her into the ground and wished she’d died on those sands?”

“Aja…” Vivienne warned but Aja was angry all over again. It had only been three weeks since the bout, but Aja was still raw about it.

“You didn’t hold her, Vivienne,” Aja snapped, “you didn’t feel how damned cold she was…”

The assembled members of the Inquisition were solemn and quiet.

“And now they’re saying they want to give her another chance so they can what? Do it again? Take out the years of resentment for our mother on my older sister? Haven’t they done enough to her?”

Samson, for once, agreed. “She’s fuckin’ right,” he said, “I’m more than tired of watching while some hopped up little shits kick and beat on Hadiza when she’s in no state of mind to really cut loose on them. Especially when they’re accessing magic none of us have ever seen before.”

Dorian smiled. “Well, that’s the real mystery: where does this strange magic come from?”

“Likely from the demons they consort with.” Samson said flippantly, “These Rivaini mages love their demons and spirits something fierce and I want no part of it.”

Vivienne nodded. “It is dangerous, and we’ve seen what happens when it goes horribly wrong. Hadiza has not been herself since despite our best efforts. However, I believe this decision for a rematch presents an opportunity that may work to our advantage.”

Samson and Aja looked disgusted.

“How so?” Dorian asked, ignoring their outrage. Vivienne said nothing, merely smiled.

“If you have faith in nothing else,” she said cryptically, “have faith in her resolve. She would not have held the mantle of Inquisitor this long without it.”

Feynriel smiled joyously. “This is true. I believe it is merely the trauma of possession that has her doubting her own power.”

Hadiza stood in the doorway, watching them. Samson’s head turned, and he smiled at her at first, but then his brows furrowed.

“Hadiza…” Was all he could say. Hadiza was clad in nothing more than a simple damask silk tunic and silk breeches, stood erect. Her bruises had faded to shadows, and her lip was fully healed. While her ribs were still sore, she could breathe easier.

And she had cropped her hair. From the looks of it, she had done it without a mirror, and with a dagger. Samson knew the dagger was wickedly sharp, as it had been his before he loaned it to her.

“Hadiza!” Aja said brightly, “You’re up and about! And you look…different.”

Hadiza said nothing, her expression harsh.

“Get everyone outside in the pit.” She said simply. At their nonplussed expressions, her silver eyes turned to steel. “ _Now_.”

She walked away, and for a moment non one moved. And then all at once, they stood, making to follow her.

“Assane!” Hadiza bellowed through the halls. “Assane Fayé!” Servants leapt out of her way as Hadiza made her way to the council chamber. She ignored the guards at the door, and with her right hand, made a stone fist and broke both doors down, startling the meeting going on within.

Assane sputtered, shocked at the woman silhouetted in the now ruined doorway.

“You are out of line!” He shouted and Hadiza struck the center of the floor with lightning, startling two acolytes.

“Where are your four best warriors?” Hadiza demanded. “Where are they? I’m ready to face them.”

“Are you mad?” Someone asked and Hadiza ignored them, coming forward, eyes bright with anger and purpose.

“Bring them to the pit and I will show you true power.” She told Assane, “Bring them so that I can settle this once and for all.”

Assane laughed, but there was an undercurrent of fear to it.

“You presume much to think you can dictate—“

A crackle of green light stymied his words. Hadiza leaned forward, smiling.

“I will not tell you again, _uncle_ ,” she said snidely, “summon them. Clap your hands. Bellow. Send a demon or spirit if you wish. But tell them to come to the pit and fight me. Now.”

She left without another word, leaving only the shattered doors and the smell of ozone in her wake. Left with little choice, and only his outrage, Assane told the council to convene in the fighting pit, where the challenge could take place.

_Time to silence this nuisance once and for all._

* * *

Oluremi wanted to laugh, truly laugh. The very audacity of the Inquisitor to make a challenge in the middle of the day, when she could scarce walk for long periods, was more than pathetically laughable at best. But so too did Oluremi relish the opportunity to lay her hands on the impudent woman once more.

Hadiza was waiting on the sands, her tunic blowing in the wind, her unevenly cropped curls ruffled and disheveled. Oluremi and Babacar came out first, followed by Mimunatu and Ajisayé. They stood before Hadiza, a mixture of confusion, disdain, eagerness, and indifference on their faces. Hadiza looked unnaturally calm. She was not even armed with a staff, which Babacar found odd.

Samson and the others sat in the stands, close enough this time to see the battle.

“What’s she on about?” He asked Vivienne, “She’s not even armed with a weapon? They’ll cry—“

Vivienne silenced him with a snap of her fan.

“She is changing the rules and shaking the game board, my dear,” she said irritably, “honestly for one who has been so intimate you would think you’d be able to see that by now.”

Samson frowned at the jab. He had not been ‘intimate’ with Hadiza in months. And he wasn’t sure she ever wanted to touch him again. Ignoring the thought, he turned his attentions back to the pit.

“ _Za a fara_!” Assane called, and without the roar of a crowd the words were snatched by the wind, echoing into the open sky and vanishing. Hadiza did not even take on a ready fighting stance as the warriors rushed her.

She simply raised her left hand, and a crackle of green slowed their charge. The hiss and snap of the Anchor was loud, the verdant sphere appearing over the warriors, and distracting them.

Hadiza closed her fist.

The screams of the four warriors pierced the air as the Anchor drained them of mana and energy, driving them to their knees. Hadiza’s face remained unchanged, a mask of cool indifference as she tightened her fist. The pressure increased and Ajisayé made to hold her head, and cut her face with her own claws. Babacar tore at his arms as the protective wards of his tattoos failed him. Mimunatu dropped her chain whip, clawing at her own face. Oluremi doubled over, vomiting profusely as the Anchor stole vitality from them.

And House Fayé looked on in true horror.

“Make her stop.” Assane said, a rare note of terror in his voice,” For spirits’ sake make her stop! She will kill them!”

Vivienne did not smile. “You said yourself that people die in this rite, Lord Fayé. Are you suddenly regretful now that the lives at stake are ones you care about?”

Green veins began to appear on the skin of Hadiza’s opponents, and Samson swallowed hard. They were well on their way to becoming victims.

“Please…” Assane said plaintively, “I will allow her to train with us, anything. Just do not take the lives of my children!”

Samson got up, leaping over the barrier to come to Hadiza’s side.

Flesh began to bleed as the screams turned to sobs. Hadiza’s face remained unchanged, her stare unblinking, pupils dwindled to tiny pinpricks of black within the pale gray of her eyes.

“Hadiza!” Samson called, “Hadiza cut it out!”

She didn’t. And Samson knew he had mere moments before the warriors began to deteriorate, absorbed into the Fade in pieces.

He summoned his power, preparing to cleanse, but he gave Hadiza one last chance.

“This isn’t you, princess,” he told her, “this isn’t how you fight. You’ve always ruled in fairness. You’ve always upheld order and justice…even for those of us who deserved neither. Let them go. You’ve proved your point.”

He saw a bit of flesh fleck away from Ajisayé’s face, turned green, and then fade like ashes in the wind.

“Hadiza, please,” he pleaded, “Maker’s Blood if you kill them there’s no coming back from that. It’s murder. You’ll…you’ll be like me.”

Hadiza hesitated.

“Maybe I should have been like you, Samson,” she told him, “maybe if I had I wouldn’t be like this. All torn up inside and hating myself. Maybe if I kill them I’ll find some semblance of peace.”

Samson shook his head.

“There’s no peace. You’ll remember their faces for the rest of your life. They’ll be with you every night, asking you why you did it. And no answer you give will ever make them go away. You’re younger than me, and not as damaged…you’re going to live a long time, princess. Don’t do this.”

Hadiza frowned.

“You were a good man, once.” She said, and the aren began to fade as she loosened her grip, “And can be again. I’ve seen it. Why can I not cross over and come back as well?”

Samson hesitated. “Because you don’t need to. There’s no reason for it, Hadiza. You are who you are. You kill these people, and all of that changes. All of it. It’s a stain on your soul.”

Hadiza looked at her suffering cousins, powered the Anchor, and shattered the line of power with her fist. All four warriors collapsed in pain, moaning from the wounds she inflicted on their spirits. Hadiza caught Oluremi’s gaze, and saw the fear there. Her heart broke for an instant, and then hardened as she remembered Oluremi’s words. She marched over to the woman, still doubled over in pain, sidestepped her vomit, and squatted beside her.

“I refrained from using this power that night because I was under the impression you all would fight fairly,” Hadiza explained, keeping her voice level, “and it is only by the grace of that man—that templar whom I love more than anything—that you live, now. So the next time you threaten me with death…remember this day.” Hadiza didn’t bother to get a response, and instead, stood up and went to Samson. He seemed relieved, from the look in his eyes, and the slight smile at the corner of his mouth.

Hesitant but no less eager, she wrapped her arms around him slowly, and he embraced her in a tight hug, nearly lifting her from her feet.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered. “I’m so sorry for what I’ve done to us.”

Samson said nothing, shutting his eyes. Holding her felt like _home_. It was in his bones, in his very marrow. And she’d come back to him on her own, clawing out of whatever darkness she’d been cast in. He knew her journey was far from over, but he loved more than anything that she chose to share it with him.

* * *

 

Art by me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter name mean 'horizon' in Hausa, given the end. Leave thoughts, feelings, critique, and the like in the comments. :3


	32. Open Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feelings. Hadiza and Aja are welcomed into House Fayé and Samson longs to know what it feels like to come home.

Hadiza stood in a shaft of warm sunlight in her bedroom, wiggling her toes against the marble, looking out over the expanse of the grounds within House Fayé’s demesne. Not for the first time, she ran her fingers through her hastily hacked hair, sighing in contentment. A knock on her door drew her out of her daydream, and she glanced over her shoulder.

“Yes?” She called, and the door opened, revealing Aja, who was grinning fit to split her face.

“Aja.” Hadiza said happily, returning the grin despite herself. Aja entered, shutting the door behind her, and immediately began laughing.

“You’ve really got them shook, Diza,” she laughed, “I think Assane almost laid a fuckin’ egg when you had his finest warriors sent to the damned healing ward.” She approached, brandishing scissors. Hadiza’s mouth twisted into a wry frown.

“Look,” Aja said, “if you had planned to do the ultimate sacrifice or what have you, you could have asked me to help. Can’t have the Inquisitor looking like she took a dagger to her hair with no mirror.”

Hadiza frowned harder. “But I did take a dagger to my hair with no mirror.” She said flatly and Aja rolled her eyes, gesturing for her to sit on one of the ‘poofs’, leather casings stuffed with feathers or cotton, and arrayed around low-lying tables or cushions. Hadiza sat while Aja pulled up a chair behind her. With her sister seated between her thighs, Aja began the careful process of cutting Hadiza’s hair properly. Between snips, the silence seemed weighty with all that longed to be given voice between the siblings.

“Would you have done it?” Aja asked without prelude, “If Samson hadn’t stopped you?”

Hadiza chewed her lower lip, hesitant to answer, and instead remained silent. It was answer enough. Aja continued to cut, discerning the look Hadiza aimed for.

“What changed your mind?” Aja asked instead, desperate for any form of communication, a response that was more than superficial, from a sister who drifted further and further from her with each day she deigned to suffer in silence and alone.

Hadiza swallowed. “A lesson needed to be learned.” Was all she said, and Aja scoffed, ceasing her shearing.

“You know one of the reasons I volunteered for this was so you and I could talk in confidence. We always used to talk.” Aja sounded to herself a petulant child, errant and without forethought enough to consider the risks she took in lashing out.

“Things change, Aja,” Hadiza said quietly, “there are some things I am not ready to discuss.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the mirror?” Aja demanded, and Hadiza was as quick as lightning as she rose from her seat and whirled on her sister, angry.

“I told no one!” Hadiza snapped, “The same as why you never told me the real reason you were expelled from the Order.” Aja stood as well, angry at having a wound so old prodded so harshly and thoughtlessly.

“It’s not the same thing!” Aja shot back and Hadiza’s hand lashed out, striking her sister across the face.

“It is!” Hadiza cried, “You have _no idea_ what it is like. None! To fear your own damned reflection because you are unsure of what you will find there.”

Aja was quiet, and Hadiza saw the ring of red around the silver irises had grown a fraction. She remembered belatedly that her sister was a Reaver, and suffered the madness of adrenaline fueled by pain. Aja wrangled the beast beneath her skin for a moment, taking a deep, shuddering breath before she looked upon her sister again.

Perhaps she knew exactly what Hadiza felt, in a way.

“I’m sorry.” Hadiza said, “I didn’t mean to make light of your ordeal.”

“Nor I yours.” Aja said, “But I cannot tread nervously upon eggshells with you, Diza. I do that for no one, and I’ll not start now. Please, just…talk to me.”

“There is nothing to say.” Hadiza murmured, “Nothing worth hearing, anyway. It’s over. Djeneba says when Corypheus was able to gain a foothold in my mind through the scrying diadem…he wore away the barrier between my mind and the Fade.”

Aja’s brows furrowed. “I do not understand.” She said and Hadiza laughed mirthlessly.

“The mental defenses a mage spends years— _decades_ , even!—crafting, are our first line of defense against the temptations of spirits from the Fade, benign or otherwise.” Hadiza explained. “The problem with the Harrowing ceremony a mage undergoes—the one that tests these defenses—is that it is a controlled ordeal. There are seniors enchanters monitoring our progress in the Fade, and there are templars waiting to neutralize us should we fail. Everything is well in hand whether we pass or fail. To pass, means you are capable of withstanding an assault by a demon seeking to control you. To fail…well.”

Aja nodded. “And Corypheus stripped these defenses away, I take it?”

Hadiza smiled thinly. “Not completely, just enough that I would not notice the influence of a powerful and cunning demon until it nearly had me. I believe he had planned to simply rend my mind to pieces, but Samson severed our connection before he could do any…irreversible damage.”

Aja frowned. “Irreversible?”

Hadiza said nothing, but there was something that made her smile very sad, like a cloud passing across the moon’s face.

“Tranquil.” Aja said finally, letting out a breath at the gravity of what had almost happened that night. Hadiza shrugged, letting out another mirthless laugh.

“It would have dealt the Inquisition a mighty blow and sealed our defeat.” She murmured, “And all of the world would burn.”

Aja shuddered, remembering what Hadiza’s report told of the dark future she’d witnessed. Still, none of it had come to pass, and despite Hadiza’s altered…state, things were well enough in hand.

“You know,” Aja said quietly, “when he approached me, I was still unsure.”

“Unsure of what?” Hadiza asked. Aja’s expression seemed troubled, and she glanced down at her feet, almost sheepishly. Hadiza’s brows went up.

“Oh.” She said. Aja looked up, meeting her sister’s eyes and smiling.

“He was handsome enough, but a right prig if ever there was one,” Aja continued, “and I was confused pining for one of the other girls in my barracks. She was so beautiful, with dark hair like silk, eyes the color of midnight, and skin like honey.”

“Never took you for a poet, Aja,” Hadiza said wryly, earning a dark look from her younger sister, which made her grin.

Aja cleared her throat. “Well, she was the first one that made me realize I was…different. But that idiot boy would not take no for an answer. Not to mention he was…one of those.”

Hadiza’s brows furrowed in confusion. Aja sighed.

“You know the ones. Never been with a woman that looked like us before type. Wanted to ‘see what it was like.’ Wanted to know if I tasted like Antivan chocolate.” At that, both sisters shuddered, having had experience with that type in their lifetimes.

“He forced himself on you, and you defended yourself.” Hadiza surmised. “And because of the family he came from, you were branded a murderer.”

“And no man will marry me.” Aja finished. “But that is the past. Let us look to the present. House Fayé has been turned on its head with your crushing victory, and now they’re debating whether to train you and make you one of them.”

Hadiza sighed. “I don’t really care.” She said simply. Aja laughed.

“Really? You almost killed four of your family members out there…what for if not to win back your right to Inherit?” Aja asked. Hadiza shrugged.

“A lesson needed to be learned, and an example made,” she said, “I want nothing to do with this place anymore. Especially after being faced with such venomous opposition.”

Aja nodded. “So we’re going home?”

Hadiza walked toward the window, watching as storm clouds gathered over the mountains.

“Home?” She wondered, “Where is that, even?”

Aja came to stand next to her. “Wherever we make it, Diza.”

* * *

Hadiza stood in the center of the council chamber, strangely at peace beneath the fearful scrutiny of dozens of silver eyes. Even Assane’s hard countenance did little to unnerve her, and she stood with her head held high, unarmed before her mother’s family. Hadiza waited, feeling herself weighed, measured, and weighed again. Was she a threat to all they held dear? Or was she a formidable potential addition to their ranks? Could she be trusted not to bring the flocks of Andraste’s legions of armed zealots to rout them?

These things were asked, though not aloud. Hadiza saw the questions writ in their gazes as sure as if they had been given voice. Outside, her friends waited, eager for a decision.

“Hadiza Trevelyan.” Assane limned her name in open contempt, and Hadiza dropped her chin, leveling her gaze at him in response, “What you did in the arena was reprehensible. You endangered the lives of the next heirs to the matriarch and patriarch seats of this House, and nearly killed four of our finest warriors. Were you Fayé, the penalty for such perfidy would be binding of your magic for the rest of your life.”

Hadiza said nothing in response, and did not offer so much as a smug smirk. She held no pride in what she had almost done, only in that a point had been made, proven, and driven home.

“But since you defeated them without killing them,” Assange’s tone was begrudging, “the council has agreed to allow you to study amidst our mages, learn our magics, and when the time comes, earn your _Tawada Jiki_ to be ranked amongst the scions of our House.”

Hadiza shut her eyes slowly. There was no murmur of assent or dissent from the crowd, not even an outlandish outburst from the more hotblooded members. They had come to this decision long before they summoned her, she knew. Her eyes opened, and she felt her response come unbidden, rife with a clarity she had not felt in months.

“You are most magnanimous, uncle,” Hadiza said, knowing the honorific nettled at the man’s nerves, “and I assure you I will do my utmost to prove I am a worthy member of this household. However, I find that—“

Shouting. Commotion. Calamity in the halls. Hadiza glanced over her shoulder, her hackles raised, her gaze sharp, angry at having been so interrupted in her moment of triumph. Several guards in Fayé livery entered the council chamber, and instantly bowed low. A young man in plain robes, but clearly a mage, rushed in, offering no courtesies.

“What is the meaning of this interruption?” Djeneba asked, “State your name and business at once!”

The young man bowed before the seeress and Hadiza narrowed her eyes. Whatever else, the reverence accorded to seers took precedence.

“Forgive my intrusion, _Mata_   _na Tanadi_.” He said, “But I bring urgent news from Kano. We require aid! There’s been a dragon attack!”

The murmurs that had been denied her before suddenly rose in a susurrus of panic and alarm, quickly quieted by Djeneba and Assane who spoke in rapid-fire Rivaini. Hadiza listened as the young man detailed the nature of the attack on his village. Saying the dragon had come from the west, deep within the mountains.

“That’s impossible,” one of the council members said, “there has not been a dragon sighted in Rivain in centuries. Why now?”

Hadiza said nothing, waiting for more information.

“We are not equipped to combat dragons,” another protested, “we know nothing of their physiology, of their weaknesses, or strengths.”

Hadiza frowned. Even in this, she was to fight for her right to be recognized.

She raised her hand as House Fayé bickered and argued over how to handle the dire situation. Kano was two days’ ride to the north, close to the Qunari settlement of Kont-arr, and the dragon had burned most of the village, driving the residents south. Even now, they crowded outside of Zazzau’s walls in ramshackle tents with barely any supplies and the clothes on their backs.

Hadiza frowned harder, sighing loudly.

“If we mount a hunt for this dragon we will lose good men and women in what may be a fool’s errand,” Assane reasoned, “and we know nothing of how to combat such a mighty creature.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Hadiza shouted, losing her patience. When all eyes turned to her in stunned silence, she huffed.

“For. Fuck’s. Sake.” She repeated, slower, to ensure they understood. “I have slain ten dragons in the last two years.”

The silence continued. Someone laughed. Another person sucked their teeth in annoyance. Hadiza spread her hands.

“If you let me lead the hunt I promise you no one has to die.” She said, “But before any hunting can go on, I need to case the dragon’s lair. It may be that there is more than one.”

A collective gasp sounded, and Assane quelled the growing murmur with a sharp word. He pointed to Hadiza.

“You boast of dragon hunting,” he stated, “yet could barely beat four of my finest warriors these four weeks past. What good is your word?”

“As good as you need it to be.” Samson said, as he and the others stepped into the room. “You’ll find no finer leader. Not for dragon hunting anyway.”

Hadiza shot him an arch look and he winked.

“Exactly.” Hadiza agreed, “I mean…Vivienne here has slain one all on her own while the rest of us were nursing burn wounds behind the—look. The important thing you must know is that you’re not equipped to handle dragons. We are.”

Djeneba lifted her chin, brow furrowing in curiosity. “Are dragons so great a threat in the south?”

Aja let out a bark of laughter. “You have _no_ idea.” She muttered. Hadiza nudged her sharply, making Aja laugh.

“Time is wasting, uncle,” Hadiza said, “and we can still save Kano if you let us act now. You’ve already decided to claim me as a scion. Well, let me bring glory and honor to the House by helping others. It’s what I’m good at.”

She glanced down at her hands momentarily.

“It’s what I’m good at.” She repeated, looking up to find Djeneba smiling approvingly at her.

Assane sighed. “If you are determined to do it,” he said through gritted teeth, “then I shall not gainsay you.” He turned to the assembly, “Any who wish to join our newest scion in her quest may do so but do so with caution.” He seemed defeated in that moment, and turned back to Hadiza.

“Is that all?” He asked, “Or shall you request I lend the moons to you as well?”

Hadiza grinned. “That won’t be necessary. Although, if you are able, standby for word.”

* * *

“You said we were going home,” Aja said as Hadiza paced the antechamber to her room that evening. The others watched her, wondering what plan she had in mind.

“I know.” Hadiza answered. Aja bit her lip.

“Dragon hunting.” She said with excitement. Hadiza didn’t stop pacing, sucking her teeth.

“I _know_.” She replied. Aja kicked up her heels, laying on Hadiza’s bed. She paused, jumping off.

“Wait…you and Samson didn’t…on the bed, did you?”

Samson snorted with laughter and Hadiza paused in her pacing to glare at her sister sidelong. For a moment, Aja merely glanced between Hadiza and Samson, and then she quietly sat on the edge of the bed, looking quite prim. She cleared her throat.

Hadiza pinched the bridge of her nose. “Alright, before we do any kind of casing of the area in question, I need to tie off loose ends here.”

Vivienne smiled to herself, but said nothing. Hadiza ran her fingers through her curls, taking a deep breath.

“Dorian.” She said, earning a warm smile from her friend, “Ready to learn some new magic?” Dorian stood, perhaps too abruptly, ready for study. Vivienne rolled her eyes. The man had been probing and prodding to learn the strange magics the Fayé battlemages had displayed for weeks, and while she was wary on such unconventional practices, she could not deny that she too was a little bit curious as to how it was done.

“I thought you’d never stop moping,” Dorian said, “it’s about time you were in control again. Shall we? Madame de Fer, perhaps you’d like to join us?” Vivienne stood, indulging Hadiza’s plaintive look before they left. Feynriel hesitated, looking between the door and Samson.

“Go on lad.” Samson groused, “We’ll take care of things, here.” Feynriel smiled wide, and hurried to catch up with the others, leaving Aja and Samson alone in the room.

“Mages.” Samson laughed, standing with a grunt and stretching his tired back. Aja stood as well.

“While they’re…learning new magic, perhaps we should assess our gear and mounts,” Aja told him, “make sure we’re ready to head out as soon as Hadiza gives the order.”

They went to the stables first, to check on their mounts. For all the uncertainty that had brewed in the house, their mounts had been well-tended—better than, Samson would say. Nyx and the others had been fitted with new shoes, their hooves cleaned to prevent hoof rot given the heavy rains, their coats brushed and gleaming, their manes and tails combed and tended. They had even replaced most of the tack, and Samson begrudgingly admitted he did like the feel of the newer, sturdier saddle. They’d even fitted Nyx, who was extremely sensitive to the bites of flies, with a new ear mesh, in the Rivain style, with tassels and the Fayé coat of arms on the forehead in intricate stitching. All in all, there was very little for them to do in the stables, and Aja being a sea-faring creature herself, deferred to Samson in the matter.

“Damned Rivainihave been a pain in my arse,” he grumbled, “but they can tack a damned horse that’s for damned sure.”

Next, they checked their weapons. Samson knew his sword needed little tending save for the leather-wrapped hilting, which he did himself, keeping the grip firm and familiar. He was careful about the blade, which had been honed sharp enough to make his cuts deadly but clean. His shield had seen better days, true, but it was still good for defense. His armor needed some repair, and Aja snatched his gambeson, offering to mend it herself. She’d stitched sails anew on ships slated to sail through deadly storms, and she’d fought alongside him long enough for Samson to trust her hand. The metal parts of his armor, however, would need the services of a smith in town. The only problem was he didn’t speak a lick of Rivaini, and Zazzau was too far from the larger cities for any of the merchants housed within to bother with the King’s Tongue. Sighing, he packed the armor pieces away.

Later, when the evening meal was sounded, Samson sat next to Hadiza, asking her why there were fewer members of the house around the communal fire than usual.

“The wedding party left,” she murmured, “now that Oluremi has been absorbed into the House, all the celebrations are done, and the family returned home to Ayesleigh.” Samson nodded, understanding. Weddings in Kirkwall usually were kept between the families involved. He’d never seen an entire city or town swept up in celebration. That usually only happened when royalty or the like got married…or so he’d heard.

Fasadé told stories, as was customary, but this time, it was different. Welcoming Hadiza as a new member of the House required ceremony, and while she had not earned her marks as a mage yet, she was still recognized by all as a scion of House Fayé—her and Aja both. They were called to the old woman with a beckoning of her weathered hands, and she anointed them with jasmine oil, and ash from the communal fire, inducting them into the family formally.

Maribasse Fayé’s name was spoken and remembered.

Samson didn’t miss the unshed tears in Hadiza’s eyes as she was hugged by each family member in turn, including the warriors she’d faced to earn her place amongst them. Oluremi was hesitant, almost fearful, but Hadiza’s smile was warm, and they embraced, briefly. All seemed to be well in hand. Aja was immediately set upon by the twins, Amadou and Musa, who like her, were not mages themselves, but warriors in kind. They were curious to see her fight, and asked about her time as a raider. She happily obliged them with the latter, saying that if ever there were some rite for her to showcase her prowess in a fight, she’d show them then.

Samson watched this, wondering if he would ever be received anywhere with such open arms.

 _There’s always the Maker. And Andraste_. He mused in his own head, and then perished the thought. He had not felt the Maker’s light in his heart in so long that it was any wonder if he would be gathered to the Maker’s side when his time finally came. The words of the Chant were etched in his bones, recited from the moment he could string words together. He knew it as a poet knew their words, but there was no wonder in it anymore, no magic. There had not been for some time, and he wondered if he could ever capture that again, if there was something that revived the faith as surely as a healer’s hands revived the flesh.

Music started, a young man strumming a strange, large stringed instrument called a _kora_ , while Fasadé sang in Rivaini. Hadiza came to sit next to Samson, and all the noise in his head was quiet. Even the strumming of the _kora_ , as light and airy as it was, seemed distant.

“How’s it feel?” He asked her, staring intently at the fire. “How’s it feel to come home?”

Hadiza touched the ash and oil on her forehead, and he saw her remembering, the feel of being embraced by family, the words spoken that recognized her as family not despite her being a mage, but accepting that she was who she was. The healer in her examined Samson quietly, and he finally turned to look at her, searching her face. The brightness he’d seen in it before was returning, and while he studied her, he knew she was getting to the root of his question, the source that bubbled in his chest like old blood.

“I don’t know,” she said at last, “I truly don’t.” Tentatively, she lifted her hand, fingertips brushing unhurried along his cheek. Samson struggled to breathe evenly, wanting nothing more than to lean into her touch, but wary that he’d frighten her away and lose this moment. Hadiza’s palm was warm, and her thumb traced the bow of his mouth, and for a moment, Samson wanted time to stop. He didn’t move, unsure if she wanted him to touch her, and wanting so badly to. Hadiza took her thumb away, and leaned in, pressing a kiss on his mouth so soft Samson felt something in him break open, his heart flooding anew.

“I missed you.” She whispered against his lips. “I’ve missed you for a long time.”

Samson struggled to find words, but something told him to kiss her instead, and so he did.

The music faded, the story ended, but neither one of them seemed to care.

The laughter of a dozen or so of Hadiza’s cousins, aunts, uncles, and other relatives drew them out of the reverie, and Hadiza bit her lip, smiling like a damned bride on her wedding night. Samson couldn’t have asked for a better end to the evening.

As the fire burned low, and members of the family took their leave, Hadiza’s hand found his, and she leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. He knew Hadiza had purposely avoided his question, though he couldn’t figure out why. What he did know was that things were finally on the mend between them, and before her kiss, he had begun to tell himself to let her go, that what they had was broken beyond repair.

She dozed against him, and he turned, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. He had no idea what a homecoming felt like, one that moved one to tears, burst the heart with a feeling no human tongue could catalogue, and lifted the burden of loneliness from one’s shoulders as if the Maker Himself had returned to ease the pain. Samson knew, and accepted, that perhaps he would never know it, especially given his foreshortened lifespan.

But as he gently roused Hadiza, and walked her to her room, he found he could create other feelings of happiness.

Like how she asked him to stay. That was a start. So he lay awake while she slept, holding her close, trying to contain the joy of being with her once more, his fingers laced with her own. It was a gesture of forgiveness on both their parts, and Samson felt something wet and salty on his cheek. Even as he’d failed her, she still wanted him by her side. Perhaps that’s what the Maker meant in forgiveness. But Samson had no time to unravel that mystery, and so he slept, content for the first time in weeks.

Neither one of them dreamed.

* * *

They suffered the ribald jokes of friends and family alike the next morning, and remained knowingly silent and smug in the face of it all. Aja rolled her eyes as Samson and Hadiza spoke without words, and finally asked if they’d gotten any sleep the previous night.

“I slept better than I have in weeks, Trevelyan,” Samson answered as Hadiza swiped a few dates from his plate to eat. Aja sighed, chewing on her bread, only to be scolded by Vivienne for planting her elbows on the table. After the initial joking was done, they discussed the course of action for their journey to Kano.

“You know,” Feynriel said, “as much as I would like to help, I am not a fighter by any stretch of the imagination.” Hadiza smiled at him.

“I know, Feynriel,” she replied, “thank you. You’re welcome to stay here…keep the torch burning for our return. I’m sure I’ll little adventure is going to go…tits up as the saying goes. So you’ll likely have ample time to study with Aunt Djeneba, write back to Josephine about our apparent deaths, and then rejoice when we come back with a dragon cut up piecemeal for selling.”

Aja snorted into her coffee.

“Well,” Dorian said, “at least she knows what’s going to happen. I cannot believe we’re going dragon hunting. Bull will kill us.”

“I know.” Hadiza said mischievously. “He’s going to be so upset. But…that’s alright. We may not even have to slay a dragon.”

Vivienne looked at Hadiza, incredulous. “Do you plan to scare it off with your atrocious singing, my dear?”

Hadiza pursed her lips. “No, but who knows? That may work. I just…I have a feeling is all.”

Samson snorted. “A feeling.” He echoed, clearly not buying it. Hadiza elbowed him gently.

“Yes.” She said firmly, “A _feeling_. This is just simple reconnaissance. We won’t engage unless absolutely necessary.”

“I’d say a village being half burned to the ground warrants some degree of engagement, Diza.” Aja said wryly and Hadiza shook her head.

“Not necessarily. Dragons don’t usually leave their lairs unless they feel they or their young are threatened. We need to go and see for ourselves what’s going on out there.”

Samson sighed. “This is going to be that damned Bone Pit Hawke was trying to sell everyone all over again, I just know it.”

Hadiza smiled. She’d read about that in Varric’s book, but wasn’t sure it was true until just then.

“Hawke really tried to sell people that damned mine with the dragon in it?”

Samson snorted. “Saw her around Lowtown and Hightown, trying to get anyone to buy it off her. Must have been sinking her into a financial hole with the damned dragon about. Heard she finally went out there to kill it herself because she was so sick of the damned place.”

Hadiza shook her head, remembering Merishka’s face. She saw none of the warmth and humor in the woman’s face that had been conveyed in the book. Perhaps by then, life had simply taken its toll on her. Shaking her head, Hadiza ignored that death that also sat heavy on her soul.

 _She chose that_. Hadiza thought firmly. _She chose it and I let her._

“Alright,” Hadiza said, “it’s a three day trip to Kano, and the longer we wait, the colder the trail gets. Let’s set out immediately once we’ve stocked our provisions.”

Thus agreed, they parted, leaving the servants to clear away the plates and leftover food while they broke away to their separate quarters to prepare. Hadiza felt the darkness in her pushed back for a moment, with this newer, more concrete purpose laid before her. Here was something she knew intimately, and was good at. Here was an enemy she could face with a blade and a snarl and _win_. She knew if she succeeded in this; in a task Assane himself had admitted House Fayé was not trained for, she would have earned her place amongst her mother’s family. With the ban of anathema lifted, Maribasse’s name was spoken once more, and the records of her time in the House unsealed. Hadiza vowed to learn all she could of her mother when she returned. As she threw on her cloak, she turned to find Oluremi in the doorway.

“Oluremi,” Hadiza said with raised brows, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Oluremi was caught between looking sullen and looking nervous.

“We wish to accompany you on your journey,” she said simply, “I, my husband, Ajisayé, and Mimunatu. Our combat trainer said it would be good to hone our skills against a dragon.”

Hadiza laughed. “This is not a training exercise, Oluremi,” she said, “a mistake out there is not met with a caning and a repeat performance. It ends in fire and blood and your inevitable death. Hone your skills elsewhere.” She moved to leave but Oluremi blocked her path.

“Please, Inquisitor,” Oluremi ground out, “allow us to accompany you.”

Hadiza frowned, then narrowed her eyes. She weighed and measured Oluremi in that moment, who was not as well-hidden in her intentions as the nobles of the south. Her intentions were plain on her face as if limned there in ink.

“Alright.” Hadiza said at last, “But you and yours must promise to do exactly as I say when the time comes, understood?”

Oluremi seemed soured on the idea, but agreed nonetheless.

“Good.” Hadiza smiled brightly. “Armor up and get mounted. We’re leaving in one hour.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Mata na Tanadi_ \- Woman of Foresight
> 
> Leave your love, hate, and thoughts in the comments! <3


	33. Jump

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You beautiful, reckless fool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know what happened with this chapter. Everything is confusion, a lot of magic happens, I tried.

The road to Kano took them through the plains, a fact that made Samson uneasy. He was a firm believer in making camp in a defensible position, but the expanse of flat, rolling grasslands for miles around did little to soothe his old nerves. They made camp during the night, and traded watches until first light where they moved on. On the road, Samson kept drilling Hadiza on her shield exercises, keeping her conditioning.

“You’ve indulged quite a bit of sweets since we came here.” He told her one night as they shared the evening meal. She nudged him playfully, earning a grin from the old templar. Oluremi watched them from across their meager campfire, and wondered. And when Hadiza and Samson drew away to their small tent for the night, she wondered still how such a thing were possible.

She broached the subject with Hadiza the following morning, a day away from Kano.

“How can you love him?” Oluremi asked bluntly, pulling her mount alongside Hadiza’s. Hadiza smiled to herself, wondering if there would come a day where folk ceased to ask her that question.

“I don’t know, Oluremi,” she answered honestly, “he makes me happy in a way no words can describe. He is the calm to my storm. I am content with that.”

Oluremi did not seem content, uneasy that a templar and mage could be bound in such a way without contention.

“You know what he is, and yet it does not trouble you?” Oluremi glanced back to Samson, who was engaged in a conversation with Vivienne, who laughed. Hadiza shrugged.

“He is what he is, Oluremi. I can not change that anymore than he can change who I am. We just…are.” Hadiza had never felt more satisfied with an answer in her entire life. It was something, to know love as naked and stripped as what she knew with Samson. She was aware of him, a pulse beating alongside her own, and smiled at the thought that maybe he felt the same as well.

“I see.” Oluremi said quietly, and Hadiza was unsure what expression she wore in that moment, but it gave her cousin the answer she sought, and she rode on ahead to join her husband, glancing over her shoulder, uncertain. Hadiza merely smiled.

“She’s very prickly,” Dorian said, “the prickly ones are always the strangest to unravel.”

Hadiza glanced at him sidelong. “She’s my cousin, not a piece of fruit, Dorian. And what do you mean?”

Dorian heaved a sigh. “She’s brilliant on the field. But I think her pursuit of the arcane is driven more by spite rather than her own desire to simply better herself. Might affect her ability to ascend to seerhood, I believe.”

Hadiza raised a brow. “Been snooping about in the family archives, have we? Found anything that won’t incite a schism in the house?”

Dorian grinned. “Oh you know me, always looking for trouble. What sort of Tevinter would I be if I didn’t use subterfuge to tear such loving families apart?” Hadiza rolled her eyes.

“Yes,” she muttered, “such a loving family indeed. So loving that I had to get my ass kicked to be welcomed by them.”

“We all start somewhere,” Dorian quipped, “back home that’s just another Tuesday.”

Hadiza groaned in exasperation.

* * *

The young man—Ibrahima—had not been exaggerating. Kano was a smoked, blackened husk, with buildings only partially recognizable amidst the ruins. Hadiza halted her hunting party at the ruins where the gate once stood. It was smoldering kindling, with splintered bits hanging off of twisted hinges. Crows circled overhead, though not in droves, and the smell of old, burned flesh wafted in the air.

Dragon fire burned for a long time.

“ _Ruhohi suna da rahama_ …” Oluremi whispered. Hadiza dismounted, and the others followed suit.

“Alright,” she said, and there was nothing playful in her voice, “Dorian, Vivienne, take Aja and Mimunatu. Head east, see what you can find. The rest of us will take the west. Dragons tend to come back to the site of their recent attack.”

Babacar startled. “Then we are in danger, are we not? Should we not stick together?”

“No.” Hadiza said simply, “This dragon was clearly a large one, and the last thing you want is it blasting us all in one go. Search the eastern quarter.”

“What are we looking for?” Dorian asked.

“Tracks. If it’s a high dragon, it may have young it needed to feed.”

“ _Ya ruhohi!_ ” Oluremi hissed. Hadiza’s face remained unchanged.

“Move out.” She ordered. As they set off in opposite directions, Hadiza began to feel as if there were something missing in the grand scheme of things. The village was more town than anything, but the walls were not defensible or nearly as sturdy as the ones in Zazzau. To a dragon, walls were meaningless. The only way these people stood a chance was by fleeing for their lives.

“Something isn’t right.” Hadiza murmured to Samson as they left the horses to explore the burned out homes. “They said a dragon hadn’t been sighted in Rivain for centuries, why now?”

Samson knelt amidst the rubble and kindling, searching for any clues.

“Can’t say,” he muttered, “not yet, anyway. You think someone may have went looking for trouble?”

Hadiza said nothing for a moment, stepping outside. They searched the other homes and found no signs. There were also no tracks indicating dragon young had been present during the attack.

“Ibrahima,” Hadiza called him over, “you said that the attack was sudden, yes? Like you all were going about your business and suddenly flames were about, right?”

Ibrahima nodded. “Y-yes! I was having breakfast with my family when it happened. There was a roar and someone screamed, and then suddenly fire. It was so chaotic and I was only concerned with getting my family out alive…”

Hadiza waved her hand. “Yes, that’s fine. What did the dragon look like? Did it have any identifiable markings? Distinctive coloring?”

Ibrahima’s eyes darted around. “Coloring! Yes! It was flying so I only saw it’s shadow but…white belly, blue, I think? I am sorry, Inquisitor, I was too afraid to look back! It was cowardly.”

“No,” Hadiza said gently, “it was not cowardly at all. Let’s see if we can find anything that will tell us more.”

“No need!” Aja called as she and the others jogged up to meet them. “He’s lying.”

Hadiza blinked, then glanced at Ibrahima in question. He froze, and then bolted. He didn’t get far, as Babacar caught him around the waist and bound his arms. Mimunatu readied her weapon but Hadiza held up her hand.

“What do you mean?” She asked Aja. Aja’s hands were blackened with soot and ash and dirt, which she wiped halfheartedly on her breeches.

“There are no remains.” Dorian said grimly, “Human bones take quite some time to burn, even under dragon fire, but we found none amidst the ruins. Did every single member of the town survive?”

Ibrahima did not struggle, but instead remained stubbornly silent.

“You may want to talk, _yaro_.” Ajisayé said dangerously, brandishing her claws, “You’re not going to stay quiet long either way.”

“ _Mchewww_!” Oluremi jerked Ajisayé away. “That is not our way! He cannot talk in pieces.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Can you?”

Ibrahima’s face was ashen and bloodless as he shook his head vigorously. Hadiza sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Ibrahima,” she said softly, “I need you to tell me what exactly happened here. Start from the beginning.”

He hesitated, brown eyes wide and fearful. “Will you kill me if I do?”

“No on is going to kill you.” Hadiza assured him. “You’ve my word as the Inquisitor and a scion of House Fayé.”

Aja smiled to herself at that. It was still unreal to either of them, but it felt good to give it voice, and to feel proud to do so. Ibrahima nodded slowly, still fearful, shooting furtive glances at Ajisayé’s claws.

“The Qunari,” Ibrahima began, “came here looking for converts.”

“From Kont-arr?” Babacar asked, earning an irate glare from Hadiza but he stayed her hand. “The settlement of Kont-arr have an agreement with our exalted Queen that they are allowed to dwell peaceably on Rivaini soil provided they do not attempt to forcefully convert others to the Qun. They have abided this for ages since the agreement was made.”

Ibrahima turned out his hands. “These Qunari knew of no such agreement,” he said, “they said any who did not convert would suffer the wrath of Ataashi.”

The group stole glances at one another. None knew the name.

“So what happened, next?” Hadiza pressed.

“We told them that we were free to practice our own faith. We have always honored the old ways, and those who wish to convert to the Qun have always been free to do so, but we would not be forced.” Ibrahima hesitated, “And so they summoned the dragon.”

Hadiza’s brow furrowed.

“That’s not…are you sure it was them?” She asked, “Did they have a mage with them? Um…what’s the damned word…”

“ _Saarebas_.” Oluremi provided. Hadiza glanced over her shoulder, nodding firmly.

“Yes. Thank you. Did they have one of those in tow? You can’t miss them: tall, bound in chains, mouth sewn shut.”

Samson shifted uneasily, remembering a time he would have rather forgotten. The lyrium always took the bits one wanted to keep.

“I don’t…” Ibrahim’s voice was beginning to crack, “I don’t know! Maybe…if it was done by magic then they would need one, yes? I have never actually seen one of these…these _saarebas_ in person. The Qunari are terrifying enough without magic at their disposal.”

Hadiza sighed, looking grim. Now she truly wished she had brought Bull along. If anyone could figure this out, it was him.

“Inquisitor,” Vivienne said, “I do believe this shifts the nature of our hunt.” Hadiza nodded, pensive and locked in her own head as she worked out a way to solve this quandary.

“Alright,” She said at last, “change of plans. Babacar, Oluremi, Ajisayé, and Mimunatu: escort Ibrahima back to Zazzau. Inform Lord and Lady Fayé of what has happened here, and see to it that contact is made to the Queen informing her of the situation. This may very well be a diplomatic matter. Meanwhile, we will continue to search for the dragon. If it comes down to it, and there is something more sinister at work, here, then it will become an Inquisition matter.”

Babacar looked ready to protest but the look in his cousin’s eyes told him otherwise, and before Oluremi could raise a fuss, he took her by the arm, guiding them back to the horses along with Ibrahima in tow. With the Inquisition left alone in Kano’s husked and smoldering corpse, Hadiza knew in some part of herself that it was already an Inquisition matter…but she knew not why.

“So what are we to do?” Aja asked as they watched the party mount up and depart toward the south, toward safety. Hadiza pursed her lips.

“We are going hiking in the mountains. If that is where the dragon is kept, I need to make sure there isn’t more than one.”

As they mounted up and headed toward the base of the mountains, Samson pulled up alongside her.

“What of the Qunari?” He asked, “If this becomes our problem…”

Hadiza shook her head. “No. I won’t meddle. It may be tension between the Qunari and Rivain. My responsibility is to protect southern Thedas.”

Samson frowned. “If those damned ox-men abided a non-aggression treaty this long, why break it, now?”

Hadiza adjusted the length of her reins, slowing Nyx’s agitated gait.

“That’s what troubles me,” she replied, “the timing of all this is so strange. But I’m betting we’ll find more answers in the mountaintop the dragon came from.”

As they rode onward, and Kano dwindled behind them, the day grew a little colder, by Rivaini standards anyway. Hadiza huddled in a light cloak, bringing her hood down against the wind. As they began the ascent through the pass, the cold deepened but the wind was mostly blocked by the mountains themselves. They weren’t the Frostbacks, but they were still formidable after getting used to flatlands for months.

“Not nearly as cold,” Samson said, “but damned if I didn’t get used to this Rivaini heat. Skyhold is going to be a pain in my arse when we finally get back.” He flexed his gloved hands as they made camp beneath the shelter of an outcropping and overhang of stone, shielded from the wind. He and Hadiza huddled together, and she smiled.

“Bones too old to take it, old man?” She teased and bit her lip on a laugh when he pinched her sides.

“Aye,” he told her, “too old for this shit, princess. I’m kind of hoping your dragon flew off toward the sea.” He stifled a yawn behind his hand. Hadiza frowned.

“Funny enough,” she murmured, “so am I. I’m tired and want to go back to dealing with diplomatic relations.” Samson raised a brow, looking down at her.

“Even Orlais?” He asked and she wrinkled her nose.

“Not that tired.” She muttered against the deep note of his rumbling laughter. Samson pressed a firm but chaste kiss to her forehead, and they bedded down for the night, weary from investigating, and beset by the sudden cold. The next morning, they realized the climb was too steep and treacherous for their horses to make.

“Damnit…” Hadiza muttered, “We have to leave them here.” She glanced at Nyx nervously. Dorian smiled.

“Magic, Hadiza.” He reminded her and she sighed, shaking her head. The kind of magic required to bind animals took a significant amount of mana, and she would need her strength if a dragon awaited her at the top of the mountain. Instead, they left the horses in the sheltered overhang, where Hadiza warded the place with spells. Depleted, she drained a lyrium potion from her ration before ordering the trek to continue.

The climb only took a few hours, and by the time they reached the summit, Hadiza hoped the dragon was absent. They saw the signs to the dragon’s lair long before they came upon it. Tracks, droppings, the scent of old dragon piss. Unlike the males of most species, in dragon kind, the females marked territory same as the males, as female dragons often dwelled alone. They made their way in silence, careful of loose rocks, or any scree that might give away their presence. The powerful stench of a female’s scent marking would have to serve to overlay their own natural scents, and Hadiza prayed it was enough.

The narrow passage opened up into a clearing, and Hadiza smelled the acrid stench of burning things, and wrinkled her nose in disgust. She sighed, motioning her team to stillness, and to listen. There was only silence, but Hadiza listened for the distant rumble of a dragon’s breathing, either in slumber or at the very least, dozing. If she had fed recently, along with her young, gorged on what villagers she could carry off in her claws, it was likely the remains missing from the village were strewn about in the clearing.

Hadiza didn’t want to think about that, but she had to see, at least.

The clearing offered no cover or protection of stealth, and she wished Ariadne or even Cole were here to ghost through and investigate for her.

“Diza,” Aja whispered, “what now? The whole terrain is open, the minute we head out there—“

“I know!” Hadiza hissed under her breath. “I’m thinking.”

The ground rumbled beneath their feet, and there was the sound of scree being shaken loose from the surrounding cliffs, and the scrabble of claws on the stone. A rumbling growl, pitch so low Hadiza felt it in the bottom of her chest, sounded from the mouth of a cave. The sun caught a flash of scales: yellow, blue, the sheen of a curved claw half the size of a grown man. Her heart skipped a beat, pulse rising as her mind raced for a solution. She had confirmed the presence of a dragon, but now…now she needed to decide how to fight it.

She edged forward, peering around the corner to see the way the clearing was circular in shape. Frowning, she stepped out, and then hugged the wall, ears straining. Hadiza exhaled, and then motioned for her companions to follow. Slowly, silently, and with much tension, they hugged the wall, and Hadiza noted with strange humor that Samson was surprisingly light on his feet for a man in plate armor. He was extremely careful, the hinges and joints well-oiled along with the leather, and his footsteps light. Aja too stepped lightly at Hadiza’s back as they made their way closer to the mouth of the cave.

The rumble sounded again, and more scree was knocked loose, the crumbling loud in the quiet that followed. Hadiza leaned away as a few rocks fell before her, just missing her head. She exhaled again, trying to keep it quiet beneath the dragon’s breathing.

This time, she was not so sure her skills would be enough.

The closer to the mouth of the cave they got, the more Hadiza wished she’d brought Iron Bull. Although she wagered he’d have run shrieking into the dragon’s maw long before she was in position to shield him. The thought brought a terse smile to her face, and she motioned for Vivienne and Dorian to have their spells at the ready. Samson, as if reading her thoughts, moved ahead, alongside Aja. As heavily armored warriors, they could withstand far more in the initial attack.

Hadiza gave them the signal to begin the assault.

The dragon, startled, burst from the cave and Hadiza heard something unstrung in its roar. Saw it stumble and fall as Aja and Samson sprinted out of range, armor glimmering with the light of the shields, Dorian cast around them. But there was something wrong; the dragon struggled and Hadiza heard the jangle of chains, the heavy metallic melody of _shackles_.

The iron muzzle around its maw.

Smoke poured from the dragon’s nostrils, and it stood, the heavy lengths of chain leading back into the cave.

Out of range, the party exchanged confused glances.

“What the hell is going on here?” Samson demanded, giving voice to the question on all their minds. Hadiza watched as the dragon struggled, tripping on the chains that shackled all four of its legs, the iron bands that kept its wings pinned to its body. It was effectively bound and helpless.

Hadiza relaxed her stance and lowered her weapon.

“Hadiza what are you doing?” Aja demanded, “Let’s kill it now before—“

“No.” Hadiza said firmly. “Let’s head back. Now.”

Dorian and the others joined her. “But why?” Aja asked, “The problem is right there. We kill it, now, we had back.”

Hadiza shook her head.

“No.” She repeatedly, “This isn’t the problem. The problem is who ever put this creature in chains. Ibrahima mentioned the Qunari ‘summoning’ the dragon to burn out his village. My guess is they took prisoners. There aren’t any human remains here either.” She stepped closer to the dragon, which thrashed, giving her pause.

“Easy.” She murmured, and the creature’s head jerked toward her, and she caught her reflection in a great yellow eye, the pupil thinning to a black slit. For a moment, Hadiza was frozen, having not seen herself for many weeks. The creature snorted and she stepped closer. Her friends, too afraid of spooking the beast into a panic, watched in rigid terror as Hadiza reached out her hand. The dragon was still as her fingertips brushed the rough canvas of scales along the snout.

“Who did this to you?” She whispered. As her hand ventured, slowly, tentatively toward the iron band around its snout, the creature tensed and she froze.

“Not going to hurt you,” she murmured, “I just want to see if we can…help.”

She knew had Bull been here he would have clocked her for being so stupid, but something about this felt wrong. Dragons were dangerous, but the females generally kept to their layers, occasionally stealing livestock for their young and for themselves, but they did not usually burn out entire villages.

She touched the iron band, and immediately regretted it.

The spell activated, blowing her backward in a shower of blue sparks. The dragon roared through its trapped snout, rearing as the band glowed, and then vanished, freeing the dragon, which promptly proceeded to huff and breathe flames around it to scatter the party. Even with its legs and wings bound with chains, it was still formidable. Hadiza found herself coughing up the dirt and grit in her mouth as she climbed to her feet. The dragon strained against its binds, snapping savagely at Aja, then Samson, who taunted it with shouts, banging on their chests to scream at it.

Vivienne’s ice spells made short work of one of its feet, but it was highly resistant to magic, forcing all three mages to engage it directly. They poured their magic into their shields, relying on the blades they carried. Hadiza thought about using the Anchor, but knew it wouldn’t avail them.

Nor would pummeling the thing while it was chained up, she realized.

“Hey!” She shouted, diving between the dragon’s stomping feet, “We need to break these chains!”

Samson’s sun shield directed most of the dragon fire around him, but the heat made him feel as if he were in an oven.

“What?!” He shouted. Hadiza came up behind him while he shielded them both and she slung ice magic to counter the heat and freeze the dragon’s legs.

“We need to break the chains and free it!” She said.

“Are you insane?!” Samson shot back, and they moved in tandem, leaping apart as the dragon snapped at them, stretching its neck. They came together behind it, mindful of the tail.

“If we free it, we’ll unleash this damn thing on all of Rivain!” Samson told her. Hadiza wanted to tell him he was wrong, but she wasn’t sure why.

“No,” she said, “I don’t think so! They haven’t had a dragon sighting in centuries, remember?” She snatched up a lyrium potion, downing it and tossing it aside and the icy burn of the potion flooded her veins. Her eyes briefly flashed blue as she let the lyrium settle, and then shielded both herself and Samson.

“If not to Rivain then where will it go?” Samson asked.

“Home!” Hadiza answered, and then broke away, summoning her spirit blade. She struck at the chains on the hind legs, and felt the resistance of a spell along its length.

“Samson!” She cried, and he came to her, knowing what she needed.

“Out of the way!” He roared and Hadiza leapt backward as he dispelled the magic on the chains.

“Alright!” He called and she rushed forward, bringing her spirit blade down hard.

The chain sheared in a shower of sparks and the dragon stumbled, suddenly partially free. They quickly made short work of the other chain.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Aja cried.

“Sending it home!” Samson answered, realizing how incredibly foolish he sounded. Aja tucked and rolled, dodging the beast’s tail.

“How are we going to free its wings?” Aja asked.

Hadiza motioned for the party to get out of range. With its front legs still bound, the dragon could only leap about, enraged. She glanced around, horns gleaming in the light.

“There’s no way to get up there, Hadiza!” Dorian said panting, “We have to kill it and be done!”

Hadiza shook her head. No, they had to free it and send it back home. It was clear this dragon was not native to these mountains. Someone had brought it and trapped it here.

Shouting from the mouth of the pathway drew their attention, including the dragon. Hadiza wanted to laugh, seeing her cousins whooping and shouting at the top of their lungs, running headlong into the clearing, brandishing their weapons.

“And to think you almost killed them!” Dorian cried.

Hadiza ignored him, running to stop her cousins from being foolish.

“Babacar!” She cried and the man came up short as she cut them off.

“Hadiza!” He answered, “We could not let you face a dragon while we ran across the plains back home! We too will claim the glory you already know.”

Hadiza ignored that too. “I need your port magic.” She said. Babacar blinked.

“I need to get onto the dragon’s back and break the binds on its wings.”

“Aiyeeeeee!” Oluremi hissed, “She has truly gone mad o!” Babacar glanced nervously past Hadiza toward the dragon, which was on edge, roaring in frustration at all of them being out of reach of its snapping jaws, fire, and claws.

“Okay…” Babacar said, “you know it cannot take us great distances. I taught you this.”

Hadiza nodded. “I know. Just get me up there. I’ll do the rest.”

Without warning, Babacar opened the port, taking Hadiza with him.

She maintained—and would for the rest of her days—that port magic was something one simply never got used to. Babacar had explained it using a leaf of paper. He’d drawn two point on opposite ends, and a line connecting them.

_“Suppose you wish to travel this distance, but this route,” he pointed to the line, “is too long. Port magic shortens the distance by doing this.” He folded the two ends together so that the points touched. He poked a hole where the two points met and Hadiza was still confused._

_“But where do we go?” She’d asked, wrinkling her nose. Babacar laughed._

_“I think it is something like the Fade, a sort of half-step within it, but it is so fast and dark that one cannot be certain.”_

As they tumbled through the uncertain darkness, Hadiza felt colder than she had ever felt in her life. Even after Haven’s destruction, and her long trek through the Frostbacks, she had never felt so cold. And then suddenly she emerged into the brightness of the real world once more, landing roughly between the bound wings of a high dragon. She struggled onto her hands and knees, mindful of the large, rigid spines along its back. The scales were as rough as rude stone, and she had no problem clawing for purchase as the beast moved beneath her.

For a moment, Hadiza considered the unfathomable.

Then, she began to make her way to the binding of one wing, summoning her spirit blade. As she suspected, the wing bindings were not ensorcelled, and she freed one wing, nearly knocked from the dragon’s back as it snapped out, flapping fruitlessly, sending the dragon stumbling to one side.

Hadiza clung onto one of the blunt spines, gritting her teeth to keep from shrieking in terror. Sensing the futility, the dragon stopped flapping and Hadiza inched toward the other binding.

She struck once. Twice. Thrice.

And then all at once, everything _shifted_.

Hadiza had never clung so tightly to anything in her life, and instead of gritting her teeth, she shrieked as the dragon shot into the air, flapping its powerful wings to hover over the clearing. Hadiza felt the wind from the wings, and the wind from being so high in the air and for a moment, as the dragon leveled itself into a steady hover, wounded legs hanging uselessly, Hadiza forgot herself.

“Maker…” She whispered, the word snatched away by the roar of the dragon’s beating wings. She crawled forward, and slowly peered over to look down. She could make out her friends below, shouting and trying to bait the dragon back down. They were so far down their voices didn’t even carry up to her.

“Like ants.”

The dragon growled, suddenly aware of her presence.

“Oh no.” She whispered as the dragon took her higher.

“No!” Hadiza cried. “No no! Go back!”

It began to turn west. Hadiza panicked. If she jumped, she would die, but if she stayed on, the dragon would eventually try to throw her off, likely from a very high altitude.

Hadiza breathed deep.

“Fuck.” She whispered. “Sorry.” She apologized to no one in particular.

She dove off the dragon, as it roared, flying westward, flying home.

Hadiza tumbled through the air, terrified beyond screaming, and trying to make peace with her fate as the ground grew closer at an alarming rate.

_Think think think!_ She chided and then she did.

She saw Babacar opening a port on the ground, and then she shut her eyes, focusing on a single shape…a swarm of white butterflies. The darkness rushed around her, and she felt herself split asunder, her consciousness spread along a sea of white, fluttering wings as she exited the darkness back into the light. The shape didn’t last long, and she was suddenly herself again, tumbling along the clearing’s floor. She skidded to a halt, on her back, her face stinging.

But she was back on solid ground.

“Hadiza!” Aja cried, rushing to her. “Maferath’s traitorous ballsack! That was fucking amazing! How did you even…?! Oh Maker! Andraste’s tits, Hadiza, are you alright?!”

Hadiza lay on her back, blinking in confusion as her sister’s face swam into view.

“Mrrrrrnnnn…” Was her only response as pain sang in her nerves. Aja laughed.

“She’s alive!” She called over her shoulder. Hadiza coughed, moving her jaw, her throat raw from shrieking at the top of her lungs.

“She better be alive because I’m going to kick her ass!” Samson shouted as he came over.

Hadiza tried to sit up, and found a dozen hands to help her. Covered in dust, and her face wet with tears from being so high up and falling so far, Hadiza looked around.

“Ugh.” She said, knowing somewhere Cassandra was nodding her head in approval.

“You rode a fucking dragon!” Aja cried and Hadiza looked none too thrilled at the prospect.

“You fucking fool, princess,” Samson said, not caring that anyone else heard his nickname for her, “you fucking beautiful, reckless fool. What the hell were you thinking?”

Hadiza looked around again, then stared at Samson, trying to smile.

“Butterflies.” She said through a dirty smile.

And Samson, despite his own terror and exhaustion, laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things got weird. Sorry. Comments are open for all feelings, discussions, concerns, critique, etc.


	34. Tawada Jiki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of things happen. As usual. Art included. :)

They were welcomed back to Zazzau with open arms.

In their absence, Assane—at Fasadé and Djeneba’s insistence—had proclaimed to the town that Hadiza had passed her Rite of Inheritance, and she and her sister had been inducted as scions of House Fayé and was to be accorded all respect due to her station.

Hadiza and Aja rode back into the town hailed as heroes.

“So this is what it’s like…” Aja said to her as they made their way back to the family’s home, “To be…noticed.”

“And respected.” Hadiza said, “This is what mother wanted for us, Aja. I think she knew deep down that no matter what we did, Ostwick would never let us feel at home.”

Aja nodded. “But…we’re still Trevelyan,” she said, “and I’m still a former raider with no magical ability to speak of who loves women.”

Hadiza smiled. “Women? Or just the one?”

Aja laughed. “Well. Yes, the one. She’s going to kill me, I think.”

Hadiza smiled, reaching over to squeeze her sister’s arm.

When they passed back through the gates of House Fayé’s sprawling estate, with its pristine white walls, and meticulously tended gardens, and swept courtyard, Hadiza welcomed the attentions of the stable crew, who took their mounts, and healers who came to assess their injuries, which were surprisingly minimal save for a few bruises and burns.

The family was chattering, eager to hear of the exploits into Kano, and enraged that the Qunari had breached the sacred and delicate peace achieved by Rivain amidst all the races.

“But why,” Djeneba asked, “would they do such a thing? What purpose does it serve?”

Hadiza tried to remember the intelligence Iron Bull had imparted to her regarding the goings-on of Qunari politics, but could not recall anything of note that would point to aggression on this scale. Capturing a dragon to use for their personal weapon was something she did not see the Qunari doing, especially given her exchange with Bull. Dragons were both revered and reviled by the Qunari—at least to her. Still, it warranted further investigation.

“So,” Assane said, “where are the spoils from your conquest?”

The assembled party cast glances at one another.

“She let it go.” Oluremi said sullenly.

“She _what_?!” Assane cried, “You let it go? You have unleashed that creature to wreak havoc upon us all!”

“Shut up, Assane.” Fasadé snapped, and Assane quelled bitterly, and said no more. Fasadé smiled at Hadiza, who relaxed visibly.

“I sent it home,” she explained, “it was heading west…toward the sea.”

Oluremi crossed her arms and huffed. “How did you even know? Let me guess: like all things, it just came naturally to you, right?”

Hadiza frowned, turning on Oluremi.

“Nothing,” she said quietly, “has ever just _come naturally_ to me. I’ve been hunting dragons long enough to see the signs. That was not its lair. It belonged to _a dragon_ at one point, but this dragon was clearly a mother, and far from home.”

Babacar stood next to his wife, his gaze questioning.

“There were no remains from previous kills, human or otherwise.” Hadiza explained. “My guess is the Qunari were keeping it there for some greater purpose…”

Djeneba looked pensive. “But what?”

To that question, none had a viable answer. Hadiza sighed, running her fingers through her hair.

“We will find no answers tonight, clearly,” Fasadé said, “let us adjourn for now and let these children rest. They’ve worked hard and saved many.” She reached up, cupping Hadiza’s cheek. “You must tell me the story of your brief dragon ride in full, young one.”

Hadiza laughed. “Yes, _inna_.” She murmured. Fasadé chuckled, patting Hadiza’s cheek.

“But first, tend to your templar before he gives himself an ulcer. He’s still and old man, you know.” She told her and Hadiza laughed despite herself, glancing back at Samson, who raised his brows in a silent question.

“What?” He asked and Hadiza smiled, turning to find Fasadé already making her way out of the council chamber, flanked by two attendants.

“Nothing,” Hadiza said, “nothing at all.”

* * *

The bath water was softened, scented with jasmine oil, and Hadiza felt her limbs go slack as she scrubbed away the rough touch of her journey, polishing herself anew. It was still strange, to not feel the length of her hair waterlogged down her back, and it was freeing, running her fingers through her short curls. For a moment, she was tempted to go to the mirror and see.

Then she remembered, and shied from it.

She finished her bath and climbed from the deep tub, reaching for an absorbent towel to dry herself. She dried her hair hastily, and then took her robe from the hook on the far wall, smiling as she found it warm from the strange stone on the floor. When she exited the bathing chamber she found Samson standing in her room, unarmored, wearing only a tunic, breeches, and boots. He was studying the cover of a book on her bedside table, and when he looked up, Hadiza felt rooted to the spot.

And yet she wanted to go to him.

“Is something the matter?” She asked him quietly and Samson came to her instead.

“No.” He replied, just as quiet. Hadiza felt something galvanize her, felt her bare feet carry her forward. And then she was jogging, and then she felt herself flying, throwing her arms around him. She took him by surprise, she knew, and then she kissed him all over his face as if she had not seen him in so long. Samson returned her kisses, laughing as they missed their mark, but he didn’t care. Any part of her he could kiss was just as rewarding.

“Maker’s Blood, Hadiza!” He said to her fiercely, “You’re going to kill this old man before his time pulling shit like that!”

Hadiza laughed, her heart light in her chest, feeling as if she were made of the very air they breathed.

“I’m sorry.” She said through her smile and Samson kissed her again, lingering, trying to ensure that she was real, alive and warm and smelling like summer in his arms.

“I know,” he said, “I’m sorry too. Andraste’s tears, girl…you’re…you’re damned foolish for that. I thought I’d lost you.”

Hadiza nudged him. “I’m here. Have a little faith, Raleigh.”

His name undid him for a moment, having not heard her speak it in weeks. It felt like something tied around his heart, yanking it in his chest, toward her. He stared at her, wide-eyed, wanting her and everything that entailed, foolish shenanigans and all. He knew it in his bones from the moment she shaped his name with her mouth, as if cupping something green and defiant in her healer’s hands, coaxing it to grow.

 _Maker_! He was in love with her all over again.

“Hadiza…” He breathed, and she seemed to know…or did she? Did she even know how much she had come to mean to him? This woman who held his hand firmly and guided him back to the light when the darkness threatened to swallow him back up? Hadiza’s smile was softer, her eyes searching his face, finding answers to questions neither one of them gave voice to. And he searched her face too, and found that the woman he loved still resided there. Changed, and yet…there was something there he wanted to protect, to nurture, to never see it threatened to be extinguished ever again.

“Raleigh?” She asked him and he smiled, shutting his eyes.

“Maker’s balls but it’s good to hear you say that, princess.” He told her and she laughed, embracing him. He held her tightly, and felt as if a compass within him had been righted, felt themselves align a little more, falling back into phase. They stood there, in the sunset moving across her bedroom window, content.

“Raleigh,” she whispered later, as they lay on her bed, with her still in her robe, and him dozing contentedly, one arm around her.

“Mm.” He replied, smiling as he felt her hand smooth along his chest, soft and exploratory, coming to rest over his heart.

“Did you ever consider marriage at some point in your life?” She asked. Samson’s tensed briefly, taken by surprise as his heart leapt beneath her soft palm. He thought about it—the parts he could remember—the women whose company he kept weren’t usually the marrying type, although, he recalled with a bit of wicked relish the few times a wife or two somehow found themselves in bed with him. A bit of a rake during his early days as a knight, when Kirkwall was not nearly as bad before the knight-commander’s assassination. He thought about all the times he’d fallen in love, and then remembered he had been too preoccupied with the glory of being a templar to really consider it.

But those days were long behind him, and he was not long for this world, was he?

“Not seriously,” he replied, “my days as a templar filled most of my time. I could have never devoted the time I spent in prayer and duty to a wife.”

Hadiza nodded, understanding. They both knew that as a Circle mage, marriage had been something eliminated from the scope of possibility for her long ago. But with no Circles to bind her, Hadiza was for the first time free to choose. And yet, duty from both her noble families demanded she marry for political and social gain…not for love.

Love was for the very lucky. Or, in some cases, the very unlucky.

Hadiza sighed. Was she lucky?

“I thought…that maybe one day I’d be married,” she murmured, “but if I go back to Ostwick, I know what awaits me there.”

Samson opened his eyes, turning his head to look at her.

“Duty, honor, family, that sort of thing.” He said with a smile. She glanced at him sidelong.

“Yes,” she agreed, “but…as a daughter all that awaits me is an advantageous marriage to some lordling. And then there’s this.” She held up her hands. Samson frowned. Yes, there was that; something he would never truly understand. He had never even considered it before, and yet, from Hadiza’s experience, and even Vivienne’s…it seemed that _everyone_ had considered it.

“If I come back here,” she continued, “to this place…I will be expected to serve this House with duty and honor foremost in my mind. I will not be permitted the freedom to love.”

Samson took one of her hands, gently, an unspoken question for her permission. She relaxed and he brought her knuckles to his lips to kiss them.

“Maybe you ought to listen to your heart for once, princess. What’s your gut tell you?”

Hadiza clamped down on the answer, and Samson did not dare allow himself to hope, did not allow himself to desire the words he wanted so badly to be real. She was too beautiful and good for him. He was too broken and useless to offer her anything.

_The Maker and Andraste would accept you back, if you but asked._

He frowned, refusing to believe that lie even though it was one he told himself.

“Hadiza,” he said, the words coming unbidden, “you know we…I…”

Hadiza sat up to look at him, heedless of her partial nudity as her robe fell open. Samson cleared his throat, unsure of where they stood. There was a time where she welcomed him to touch her at his leisure. He missed the taste of her skin, the warmth of it against his lips, the feel of her pulse on his mouth when he kissed her neck.

“When did you plan to tell me you weren’t getting better?” She asked, shattering the spell. Samson took a deep breath to steady himself, nostrils flaring before he sat up, turning to leave. Hadiza grabbed his arm.

“Don’t.” She said, “Don’t run from me. Not with this.”

Samson hesitated, and then sighed.

“How long have you known?” He asked her, not wanting to meet her eyes. Hadiza relaxed, crossing her arms.

“Long enough to know that the corruption is back on the move.” She bit her lip, sighing. “And that Dorian has been helping you combat it as best as he’s able.”

“It helps with the pain,” Samson said, “but I can still feel it. Slower than before when you all first brought me in…but…it’s coming whether you’re ready or not.”

Hadiza clenched her fists.

“I’ll find another way, then.” She said firmly. “I can fix this.”

Samson smiled, shaking his head with a laugh. “You can’t, princess. Too late for me. But you can help others so they don’t do what I did.”

Hadiza stared at him. “How can you be so calm about this?” She asked. “You know, it’s been almost two years, and I never would have imagined…”

“Nor I.” Samson said, still smiling, “And I’m calm because it’s no use being terrified. I told you it would steal your vengeance, princess.”

Hadiza let out a strangled sound.

“It’s not vengeance it’s stealing anymore and you know it!” She shouted at him and Samson’s brows went up. He saw her hand go to her mouth, her lip quivering. Ah, shit. _Shit_.

“Princess, don’t…” He said and she burst into tears. Maker, for a woman as strong as she was she sure cried a great deal. Samson regretted the thought. She didn’t deserve that, not after what she’d been through, and not after all she’d done for Thedas…and for him.

“Hadiza.” He said her name and she quieted, sniffling, and angrily dashing the tears from her eyes with her sleeve. Samson turned to face her fully.

“Come here.” And he opened his arms, and she came to him, holding him tight.

“You and I both knew, from the minute we signed up for…this…what would happen. You’ve done a hell of a lot to keep me from going down a dark road, and Maker’s balls I love you for that. I didn’t ask for it…wasn’t even sure I wanted it…but you gave me a chance when I deserved it least.”

Hadiza made a small sound and Samson laughed.

“Oh come on, it’s not as if I’m dead yet. And I’ve still got my wits. Who knows, might have a handful of years left. And I’ve you and your Tevinter friend to thank for that. And the cheery little dwarf back in Skyhold.” He looked down at her as she looked up, and then pressed a kiss to her mouth.

“So…” She murmured, “What now? I can’t…I can’t save you.”

“Oh you’ve already saved me a dozen times over, princess.” Samson chuckled, brushing his thumb over her tearstained cheek. Hadiza tried to smile, but every time she thought about losing him to something she just _knew_ she could fix given time, she broke down. Samson let her, knew the tears were needed. But he didn’t want her mourning him before he was dead.

“This is why I didn’t want to tell you.” He said gently, “I knew you’d cry.” He hated seeing her cry, and Hadiza finally got her tears out, laughing.

“You idiot.” She whispered and he shrugged. “Sometimes I wish…sometimes I think it would be easier if we’d never have…”

Samson blinked. “Yeah, you’d be saving the world and I’d be rotting under Skyhold. And you wouldn’t be crying about my death sentence.”

Hadiza laughed. “And I’d never know or wonder what it was like to kiss you.”

He grinned. “And I’d never know the weight of you in my arms. Probably would never hold anything again.”

Hadiza moved closer, leaning forward, braced on her arms, her mouth a hair’s breadth from his own.

“I’d never see the good man you’ve become. Even though you drive me up a wall sometimes.”

Samson kept smiling, moved closer, brushed his lips against hers.

“I’m not a good man.” He murmured.

“Don’t argue with me.” Hadiza murmured back, kissing him.

It was good. Ah, Maker it was so good. Samson let her take them where she willed, let her kiss him until sentient thought blurred beneath the lush feel of her mouth. Silence closed in around them, save for the sound of their breathing, and suddenly, they were moving. She pushed him backward, stronger than he’d known her to be, and he felt desire wake in him, ravenous and insistent, but he knew he was not the one to guide it. Hadiza was steering them where she wanted, and she gave unspoken orders that he followed with alacrity. She shrugged out of her robe, and the sight of her—Maker’s balls the sight of her was enough to get him hard. The lush weight of her breasts heaving and bouncing with the movement of her body, the soft, luxurious satin of her skin, and muscles that had been hidden by the softness of her sweet tooth, showing through.

And there were scars too, still relatively fresh. Slash marks of her own making. Those too were sacred to her flesh, a memory she would carry with her. She got him out of his breeches efficiently, freeing his cock, which she grabbed insistently, making him groan.

“Maker…” He muttered, head falling back against the headboard. She straddled his legs, stroking him slowly, making him groan, wishing her to make an end of it. Hadiza paused, meeting his gaze.

“Hadiza…” Samson’s voice came out winded, “…something wrong?”

She didn’t answer, not at first, but then she slid away from him.

“I can’t do this.” She murmured, incredulous. “Samson I can’t…”

Samson took her hand. “You don’t have to. If you’re not ready.”

Hadiza nodded, trying to steady her breathing.

“The demon, when I was…it decided to go through my memories. Tried to taint them. I think it worked.” She bit her lip. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing.” Samson said firmly. “Nothing is wrong with you, Hadiza. You’ve been hurt bad is all. This shit takes time.”

Hadiza nodded again, agreeing but her mind felt scattered, thoughts like marbles rolling out of reach. She ran her hands over her face, sighing again.

“Can we just lay here?” She asked, “And talk?”

Samson smiled at her, felt himself going soft.

“Yeah, princess,” he laughed, “whatever you like.”

And so they did, skin to skin, body to body, their fingers intertwining as they talked. The silence stretched as the sun’s light vanished behind the mountains, and they laughed together, making new memories. And as the night deepened, so too did the well of what they’d forged together. And when she kissed him again, there was no uncertainty in it, only the surety of a woman in love, and the relief of the man who loved her back. They made love in the dark, and Hadiza felt the tainted memories of the demon clawing for purchase. Samson let her guide them, let her set the pace, slow and agonizingly good. He kissed the parts of her he could reach, his hands spanning up the muscled length of her back, passing around to cup the lush weight of her breasts, thumbs passing over her scars and nipples alike.

Hadiza lost herself in what she loved most, trying to reclaim it, reclaim herself. This body, battered and scarred as it was, was her own and Samson revered it as if it were forged by the divine.

Too beautiful. Too good.

In the end, exhaustion defeated them, and though neither of them reached where they so badly wished to go, it was enough that they tried. They lay in panting silence, sweat-slick and unfulfilled…and yet…

“That’s a first for us, I think…” She murmured through her panting breath, “We usually…get there.”

Samson laughed. “I’m getting old, princess. I’m afraid there’s going to be a lot of this in the future.”

Hadiza rolled onto her side to face him. “That sounds like quitter talk to me, Raleigh.” She ran her fingertip down his chest, tangling her fingers in his chest hair, feeling the vibrations of his laughter as he took her hand and brought it to his lips to kiss it again and again.

“Well.” He said, “I might be able to remedy that, princess…get up here.”

Hadiza eyed him, and with her palm still on his lips, he raised his brows, and gestured for her to join him. And so she climbed atop him once more, looking down at him.

“Now…there’s a sight that’ll rouse a man for anything,” he murmured, “now…let’s see if we can get you where you’re trying to go.”

Hadiza laughed. “Are you a damned carriage driver?”

Samson smiled up at her, getting a firm grip on her ass, fingertips digging in.

“I got a few things I’m good at, princess,” he murmured, and dragged her forward, “making you scream is one of them, memory serve.”

Hadiza’s eyes darkened with desire, and Samson, being a man of simple pleasures, wasted no time. He buried his nose in her sex, soft folds moist and tender from their earlier activity. At first, his tongue traced a wet path to soothe, and Hadiza sighed, head tipping back. When she fully relaxed, Samson turned his attentions from soothing to teasing. He passed his tongue along her slit, forward and back and Hadiza tried to focus on the rhythm, imagining what it looked like in her mind’s eye. She heard herself gasp, felt her thighs tense as he parted her again and again, finding the hidden bud of her clit, sucking it between his lips.

She swore, bracing herself against the headboard.

Samson’s hands cupped her rear, pressing her hips forward, opening her further as he continued, slow and sure, heedless of the wash of slick along his lips and chin.

“Raleigh…” She whispered, “I’m going to…”

He knew, and as she began to crest, her voice rising in pitch, sucking air into starved lungs, her hips moved, rocking to counter the rhythm of his mouth and tongue. She made a sound, an attempt at a word as Samson turned his focus completely on her clit, the broad flat of his tongue applying pressure, while he hollowed his cheeks to suckle her greedily.

Hadiza cried out, a shiver of release moving through her as she came, a soft feeling of warmth settling over her skin and soaking her through.

“Oh…” She whispered, stars winking across the darkness of her vision as she opened her eyes, “… _oh_ …” She let Samson guide her, and heard him breathe a little deeper of the cool air of the room.

She looked down at him, her face suffused with wonder as she settled back into her own skin.

“You still with me?” He asked her. Hadiza’s fingertips brushed aside a few locks of his hair, plastered to his forehead. Her mouth shaped a single word, imbuing it with all that she felt no other words would ever do justice.

“Always.”

* * *

For a while, it seemed as if things were well in hand. Hadiza sent word of the Qunari attack to the Queen of Rivain, named Mariam Campagna, descendent of Queen Asha, and while they awaited word, Hadiza continued her studies amongst House Fayé’s mages. Her sister sparred with Ajisayé often, and the two Reavers bonded over a shared burden. Mimunatu, who was more or less Ajisayé’s handler, remarked on this one afternoon after the conditioning exercises were concluded.

“Your sister is a kind soul, for all her brashness,” she told Hadiza, “and Ajisayé has ever been a solitary woman. She does not make friends easy.”

Hadiza smiled, wiping sweat from her brow as she took a drink from her waterski.

“Aja is very much like her in a way,” she replied, “and I think it is good for them both, in more ways than you and I will ever be able to understand.” Mimunatu stared at Hadiza from behind her mask, and Hadiza caught a glimmer of silver eyes within the eye slits.

“Why do you wear a mask?” She asked without preamble. Mimunatu was silent for a moment.

“Perhaps when you come to visit again,” she said, “I will tell you.” And left. Hadiza, fearing she had given offense, went after her.

“Wait! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to pry…I just thought…” She felt foolish as Mimunatu turned to face her.

“I know.” The older woman replied. Slowly, Mimunatu lifted her mask, just enough to expose her mouth and nose. Hadiza gasped before Mimunatu lowered the mask once more. Hadiza stood there, unsure of what to say.

“I didn’t know.” She said lamely and Mimunatu laughed.

“How could I expect you to? You are soft of heart, Hadiza Trevelyan; I know your intentions were not malicious.” She turned and walked away again, and this time Hadiza did not follow.

* * *

The nightmares came back as summer neared its end and the Inquisition made preparations to head back to Dairsmuid. During that time, Samson and Feynriel took turns bringing Hadiza back to reality as she awoke, swiping at phantoms, shrieking curses, sweating and wild-eyed with that old fear. Feynriel, fearful of entering her dreams, merely helped Hadiza through exercises to continue to rebuild the mental barriers that Corypheus and the demon had eroded. The nightmares continued, but the screaming and fighting had reduced over time. Hadiza refused to see herself in the mirror, and shied away from reflective surfaces when she could. When she could, she helped Samson learn Rivaini, teaching him simple words and phrases.

“What’s that one you always say to me?” He asked, “The one that sounds like you’ve had some strong drink.”

Hadiza smiled sheepishly.

“ _Ina sôn ku._ ” She murmured. “It means I lov—“ And Samson would steal a kiss, making her laugh.

Those were some of the best days between the two of them.

And then Assane gathered the family for a proclamation.

Hadiza was summoned to the council chamber along with her friends and Assane, who seemed resigned but dignified, gave her the news.

“You are to receive your _Tawada Jiki_.” He said, “As is the custom and your right as a member of the House. You have proven your worth in battle, and brought luster to the our name. And…” His mouth twisted but he continued, “…it has come to our attention that you have the gift of shapeshifting.”

Hadiza bit her lip. “I am no master if that is what you mean. I…I was taught the rudiments is all.”

Assane nodded. “It is true, but you have gifts in many schools of magic. Perhaps the Circles of the south were worth something after all.”

Hadiza was speechless.

Assane seemed smug. “Have you naught to say, Inquisitor? Are you suddenly so overcome with modesty?”

“Assane, please,” Djeneba chided, “the girl has been through enough without your constant grousing. She has been given a great and mighty honor. Give her time to process it at least.”

Hadiza let out a sound. “What is the _Tawada Jiki_?” She asked.

There were a few gasps. A few members of the family laughed. Fasadé smiled kindly from her place, flanked always by two attendants.

“Babacar, show her.” Djeneba said and Babacar stepped forward, according his mother a reverent bow. Slowly, he unbuttoned his shirt, and shrugged out of it. Hadiza’s eyes went wide at the sight. Babacar’s torso was covered in an intricate design of tattoos. She recognized the ones of protection, black concentric circles on his shoulders, with some ancient-looking script in the spaces between them. She saw the echo of a sword on his chest, pointing upward, marking him as a battlemage, and a sigil she did not recognize.

“Oh.” She said breathlessly as Babacar button up his shirt. Samson made a noise in his throat.

“You sure this is what you want?” He asked her quietly. Hadiza blinked.

“I…” She tried not to wring her hands in nervousness. “You do me a great honor with this, and I…doesn’t it…I don’t…”

Someone laughed.

“The Inquisitor has finally run out of quips!” Someone called, eliciting laughter.

“Oh shut it!” Samson barked. Hadiza took small pleasure in the silence that followed, sighing as she collected her thoughts. Samson watched, and even thought she was still wounded, still healing, he saw her square her shoulders, saw _The Inquisitor_ come forward to replace Hadiza, silver eyes turning to steel, her mouth setting into a determined line. Maker, she was beautiful!

“You do me great honor,” she said in a clear voice, every syllable in clear accented Rivaini, her milk-tongue, her mother’s tongue, “and I am greatly pleased that you feel I am ready to receive it. For my mother’s memory, and for my own glory, I shall embrace it wholeheartedly, as a scion of House Fayé, that I might carry my heritage with me no matter how far my life as the Inquisitor takes me from this place.”

There was stunned silence, and Samson smiled, proud, alongside Vivienne, Dorian, and Feynriel, who watched Hadiza claim her birthright.

“And what of you?” Assane said to Aja, “You already bear the marks of a thie—pirate. But you too are entitled to this birthright.” He looked her over, lips twisting into a frown. “If there’s room left to put anything there.” He added, earning a glower from his wife and mother both.

Aja turned out her hands, smiling. “Thank you, uncle, but no thank you,” she said, “I’ve got marks enough already that sets tongues to wagging in the South. It is enough that you all have claimed my sister and I as your own. It is more than I dared to hope for, and better than I expected.” She clapped her sister on the shoulder, squeezing gently, and sharing a knowing smile with her.

“Aside,” Aja said, never breaking her sister’s gaze, “this is Hadiza’s day. Let her claim the birthright for us both.”

And at that, the cheer that went up could be heard from outside the estate’s gates.

* * *

The ceremony called for feasting, as almost all Rivaini ceremonies did. The _Tawada Jiki_ was a rite of passage for all scions of the House, but more important for mages, who wore the mark of their power’s specialty on their skin, imbued with magic. The process took days to complete, and the healing was done by the body, and not by magical means, which took weeks. Hadiza was spirited away by the young acolytes, sequestered for days as she was bathed in the jasmine-scented waters, and the seers prayed over her body. It was solemn, and Hadiza felt as if she were a dead woman, and the wails and ululating cries that went up reminded her of a funeral rite. She was draped in simple white cloth, a shapeless shift of soft cotton, and then they began the work of designing her sigil.

Outside of the sacred quarter, her friends agonized and waited. Well, Samson agonized and waited, while the others were more anticipatory.

“Relax, Samson,” Aja said, “she’s getting a tattoo, they’re not going to kill her.”

“But she’s been gone for three days,” Samson said, “and no one’s saying anything of what’s going on. When the hell is it going to be over?”

Vivienne was reading a book, calm as could be, smiling to herself.

“It will be ended in two more days, and then you will be permitted to fret over her in person,” she said, “until then, do sit down. Watching you agitate is giving me—“

“Oh please,” Samson groused and Vivienne glared at him, “as if you aren’t worried yourself. You’re Orlesian.”

Vivienne said nothing, but the look in her eyes might have killed him were he a lesser man. Which, to her, he was.

“Why the Inquisitor tolerates your behavior is a question for the ages,” she said, “but do not trouble yourself, Samson. It will soon be ended. All of it.”

Samson frowned, not understanding her meaning.

“Oh,” Feynriel said, trying to diffuse the situation, “perhaps it’s over sooner than we thought! Look!”

The music preceded them, and from the sacred quarter, figures in white emerged, singing in haunting harmonizing notes, songs in the old tongue, with words that could not be translated, but the meaning was clear. In the center of the procession, Hadiza swayed unsteadily on her feet, but before he could go to her, Samson was stopped by Aja.

“Wait.” She said, her voice devoid of humor.

The family turned out in the courtyard where Hadiza was led, bearing something on her head shrouded in red. It was a large, spherical bowl like structure.

“That is a ƙ _wariya_.” Amadou said to them, “It carries the blessings of all the seers within it for the one undergoing the marking ceremony. She will deliver it and bare herself before all that her _Tawada Jiki_ is witnessed and recorded.”

Samson watched as Hadiza ascended a small stairway to a dais, illuminated by faerie fire. She lowered the ƙ _wariya_ to the ground before her feet.

“Disrobe,” Fasadé’s voice rang out, “that all may bear witness and know you for a scion of House Fayé, a defender of the people, and a healer of the wounded of body, mind, and spirit.”

Hadiza disrobed, and Samson saw the black ink freshly limned into her skin, illuminated by the white preternatural fires cast by the mages of the House. The sword stood blade downward, directly between her bared breasts, the hilt and pommel wreathed in delicate vines. Beneath her breasts, he smiled to see the motif of the butterfly, the shape she took to save her life, also wreathed in the growing vines, signifying her skills as a healer. She was a defender, a protector, a nurturer of life in mind, body, and spirit.

He knew of no better mark for her to bear upon her skin than that of the truth.

When it was witnessed and recorded, the chest of her mother’s armor was brought out. They dressed her with slow, ritualistic care, culminating in the diadem set upon her head and inlaid with a fire opal. The armor was lined with blue lyrium veins, and glowed as she touched their source with her own magic.

Samson knew of no better time to admit that even if he had a day left to him, he wanted to be by her side for it all.

Hadiza stood taller, prouder than he’d ever seen, and the family cheered.

Later, there was celebrating. There was always celebrating. Hadiza felt as if she were at an Inquisition party, greeting family members both blood-kin and not, smiling and receiving the kiss of greeting and congratulations for her initiation. Wearing her mother’s gleaming armor, she looked like a warrior queen greeting her subjects, and Samson waited, as he had two years prior, when he’d watched her in a similar situation after her victory over Corypheus. And just as before, she found him, coming to him like a dream spirit, the firelight making her armor gleam. He heard the song of lyrium in her armor, a chorus that fit with her, and he kissed her soundly.

“How do you feel?” He asked her. Hadiza smiled at him, peering up at him from beneath sooty lashes.

“I should be asking you that question.” She murmured. “You looked at me as if you could not believe I was real.”

Samsonsqueezed her arms. “Ah. Well…you are something else, princess. Inquisitor, protector, battlemage, healer, engineer, reckless, beautiful, and…”

“Yours.” She finished, startling him. He searched her face, waiting for the punchline of the joke.

“I thought you belonged only to yourself.” He said.

“I do.” Hadiza agreed, “But I am nothing if not generous.”

Samson laughed. “So you are.” He murmured, moving to kiss her. “So you are.”

Hadiza let him hold her a moment longer.

“Raleigh,” she murmured, and she realized belatedly they were swaying in time to the music.

“Mm.” He replied, intertwining his fingers with hers.

“I want to be your wife.”

 

* * *

Art by me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Inna_ \- Mother or 'mom.'
> 
>  _Tawada Jiki_ \- Literally translating to 'ink body.' A Rivaini custom specific to House Fayé. When mages are ‘blooded’ or formally indoctrinated into their training, they are tattooed, usually with marks of protection and marks denoting their specialization and attributes of power. For Hadiza, she was marked as a battlemage and healer. The sword pointing downward signifies that she is a defender of the people and does not raise her weapon to deliberately harm others. The vines and flowers wreathing the sword signify growth, denoting her station as a Creation mage. The butterfly is her personal sigil, imbued with the charm of protection, as is the custom. Each mage has their own personal sigil in addition to the traditional marks. The Tawada Jiki is usually placed somewhere upon the upper torso, be it on the back, chest, neck, or upper arms.
> 
>  _Ina sôn ku_ \- I love you. _Ku_ denotes a male as the subject while _ki_ denotes a woman.
> 
>  _ƙwariya_ \- Calabash...the closest approximation. It's a large wooden bowl that carries a variety of things, usually carried on the head and covered with a circular woven mat called a _feƴ-feƴ_. I don't know the English equivalent of these words, so my shitty descriptions are all you get, sorry!
> 
>  _Tô_! We are approaching the _Trespasser_ part of this story arc, which I will say in advance, will not be nearly as detailed. We all played the same DLC, and not much of Hadiza's story deviates from it save for the entire...Samson bit, and her entire adventure prior. But, I will touch on a significant part of the game that will round off this tale. For those who are still reading, thank you so much, even if it's just hate-reading. For those commenting, thank you thank you thank you. I am so honored and pleased that you're still along for this ride.


	35. Leavetakings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fanart included in this chapter. NSFW also.

Samson would never claim to be the pinnacle of well-traveled or cultured. He would never claim to know everything, nor did he wish to. But he did know that there were few things that could surprise him. If he had sought to make a list of all the things he deigned _unlikely to happen to him_ he might have put his reinstatement in the seventh slot, and Hadiza Trevelyan, the Inquisitor and Scion of House Fayé of Rivain, proposing to him in the middle of a party…at the top.

No, he’d likely never even consider it because she was too beautiful to be serious.

And so Samson stared at Hadiza, and then he laughed, because he could not bring himself to consider that she was doing anything but poking fun at him. He had always thought what they had was as fleeting as the hope upon which his life now hinged. He had never imagined in life—had never considered the possibility—of pledging himself to aught but duty and the Maker. And when his path diverged to darkness, part of him, small and forgettable, had prayed for a sign that would turn him back to the light. He had wanted, in a small part of himself, the salvation the Chantry promised so many, yet never delivered upon. He wanted the light of the Chant in his heart again, and wanted to believe as he once did, when his armor gleamed in the sun, and he walked with purpose and pride.

He stared at Hadiza’s increasingly worried face, and wondered if this was a sign from the Maker. She was holding out her hand, and all he had to do was take it and step into the light.

“Maker…” He whispered, “Are you serious?”

Hadiza smile shyly.

“Yes.” She said, “I just thought…since we’re already…that is…only if you wanted to.”

Samson could die happy now that he’d seen Hadiza Trevelyan flustered twice in the same month. But he wasn’t sure about his answer.

“Hadiza, you know…you know what you’re asking?” He asked her, and he saw her nod, biting her lip. Samson laughed again, kissing her because words were meaningless and his heart was too full.

“Only if you want me.” She murmured and Samson laughed again.

“You idiot,” he told her, “I should be asking you if you want me at all. Maker! I don’t deserve you.”

Hadiza quelled his doubts with a look. There was no lie there, only the love of a woman who for some reason had decided he was worth saving…that he was _worth it_. It was, perhaps, one of the few things in his life that would not end in failure, and as Samson rested his forehead against hers, he gave her his answer.

* * *

House Fayé was in uproar about the news, and before either Samson or Hadiza could decide, the women of the house had swept her away, chattering happily about the prospect of another wedding celebration, even if it was to a templar of all things. Samson, confused, asked Dorian what was going on.

“It would seem you two are going to have a proper wedding,” Dorian explained, “and it’s about time. You two might as well officiate it. You know, to further spit in the faces of Hadiza’s detractors.”

Samson frowned. “They don’t have to know.”

Vivienne crossed her arms and looked decidedly displeased.

“And yet, like all news…it will carry fast.” She said, “Samson. A word in private, if you will.”

They walked along an open-air hallway, and Vivienne’s gait was as clipped and swift as always. Samson thanked the Maker for his height otherwise he never would have been able to keep up. She slowed when they got to the garden.

“I hope you understand that there will be a storm from this,” Vivienne said quietly, “one from which there will be no power of yours to defend her.”

Samson frowned. “If you mean the politics, then yes, I’m well aware. What you need to understand, my lady, is that I no longer care.”

Vivienne pinned him with a glare. “You should. If word of this reaches the south in any capacity, the Inquisition will be as good as disbanded ere we reach Skyhold.”

Samson laughed. “You’re talking to the wrong man, my lady, if you think the Inquisition disbanding would ever bother me.”

Vivienne’s fingertips brushed the petals of a bloom of crystal grace, mindful of the thorns.

“If the Inquisition dissolves, Samson, so too does the only thing protecting you from this world.” She reminded him and Samson took a deep breath, nostrils flaring.

“Just say you don’t want me marrying her and have done with it, my lady,” he muttered, “it’s a damn sight better than hiding behind politics. We’re not in Orlais…you can relax.”

Vivienne laughed. “My dear, if you think that the politics of Rivain are no less rigorous than that of Orlais, then you have not been paying attention.” Samson spread his hands.

“Then what do you want me to say? No, I won’t marry her? Maker, I’ve lost everything I ever cared about…and now I have something—someone—who gives a damn and you want me to what? Say no? Well, I won’t. Politics be damned.”

Samson chose himself.

Vivienne smiled as if she’d found some answer to an unspoken question.

“Very well,” she said quietly, “then allow me to wish you the best in your upcoming nuptials. I would hate for it to…end as well as everything else in your life has ended.”

Samson glared at her retreating back, the barbs of her words stuck in his heart. But he was pleased when he felt no doubt. If these were his last days in this world, he’d spend them happy, doing something worthwhile, protecting as he was meant to.

Politics be damned.

* * *

Hadiza sat in stillness as the young girls of the house applied a thick, foul-smelling paste to her hands and feet in an intricate design, and she blinked, uncertain.

“This is _lele_ ,” one of the girls explained, “it will make you more beautiful. Oh! Auntie Djeneba!” The seeress entered the room of giggling women, who quieted in her presence. She made a small gesture, indicating the celebrations to continue. The entire house was bustling with activity, the kitchens alive with the smells of another feast being prepared, and the musicians were alerted. Months on the heels of Babacar and Oluremi’s wedding, another wedding was to be celebrated, albeit smaller and more insular given the circumstances.

Hadiza looked up at her aunt, looking helpless as the women around her attended to everything, feeding her syrupy dates and honeycomb.

“To sweeten your tongue for the kisses you will share,” they would laugh and Hadiza smiled, tears in her eyes, remembering her mother saying the same when she would give her sweets as a child.

“Your templar is like to go mad if he does not see that you are well.” Djeneba laughed, taking up a seat behind Hadiza and aiding in the preparations. Hadiza shivered as her aunt’s firm fingers massaged oil into her scalp, and combed her short curls.

“He won’t ever admit it, but he frets enough for the both of us most days.” Hadiza laughed to herself, “He’s not used to our existing in absolute safety.”

Djeneba reached for the black thread, and began to wrap Hadiza’s hair in sections.

“No, I suppose he is not. And from the look of him, he’s not used to having joy and bounty either.” Hadiza flushed, not saying anything. Samson’s story was his own; whatever her aunt gleaned from her own observations, Hadiza would not confirm nor deny it. One of the girl brought forth a lacquered box, and opened it to reveal the bridal jewelry she would wear. It was coral, a deep and orange-like red, wrought in pleasing shapes, and accented with gold. Hadiza had never seen a Rivaini bride before, and she realized in that moment that she was to become one.

When the _lele_ came off, Hadiza saw the designs stained into her skin and wept for want of her mother. They bathed her in fragrant rose water, rubbed her from head to toe in almond oil until her skin was supple and gleaming, the _lele_ standing out against her skin, and she nearly wept to see how they had artfully covered the scars on her arms with the designs, vines and flowers blooming along the slash marks, black as the ink of her _Tawada Jiki_ , which they tended to with reverence and care. They bound her hair in black thread, weaving the coral diadem into it. The heavy, faceted ruby rested on her brow. Her bridal gown was a garment called an _asoke_ , midnight blue with an elfroot pattern woven in green. It left her shoulders bare and naked, and a sash to tighten at the waist, stiff with embroidery. A coral necklace, set with rubies and gold was settled around her neck, along with heavy gold earrings that weighed at her ears. Hadiza let them paint her face, taking the threads used to wrap and bind her hair, and using them to shape her brows. They painted her eyelids gold, and lined her eyes in heavy black kohl, making the silver all the more striking. Her lips they painted red, a deep oxblood color that shone in the candlelight.

And then they brought her a mirror.

Hadiza looked away, but Djeneba rested her hands on her niece’s shoulders.

“It’s alright,” she whispered, her voice soothing, “I’m here. If nothing else, would you not like to see how beautiful you look?”

Hadiza hesitated momentarily, and then slowly, tentatively, turned to look in the mirror. She froze, expecting seven eyes and a head crowned in horns to stare back at her, but instead she saw a woman who was too regal and beautiful to be called _The Inquisitor_. Never in her life had she ever been so elaborately painted, bedecked, and presented. Even her dresses and cosmetics she had donned while in Halamshiral paled in comparison to the decadence and luxury House Fayé bestowed upon her. She looked more goddess than queen, more queen than bride, more bride than woman, and yet she saw herself in the reflection. She saw _Hadiza_ in the kohl-lined gaze, in the sleek line of her jaw, in the oxblood-red mouth that gaped in astonishment.

Djeneba smiled approvingly. “Now you are ready.”

(Art by Me)

* * *

The wedding wasn’t long, and for that Samson was thankful. He felt alien in the Rivaini finery they’d fitted him for, the strange, itchy material too fine and lavish for him. He’d barely gotten used to wearing silk as Hadiza’s champion and bodyguard, and now he sat, a _kufi_ on his head, and a heavy coral necklace around his neck, waiting. They’d been planning this for weeks, and he’d barely gotten to see Hadiza through the hectic time they spent. And then the bridal procession arrived in the pavilion, and he saw her for the first time. Truly saw her.

Any minute now, he expected to wake up and be shivering in his cell in Skyhold, his mouth sore from a split lip, his eye swollen shut, and his gut coiling from withdrawing. Any minute now he would blink and all of this would vanish and he’d be back in the chokedamp of Kirkwall, begging for coin on the docks, looking desperately for a place to bed down for the night especially when the summer rains came in from the sea, setting the city to sweltering, and Lowtown to smelling foul. He expected to wake up and even find himself still Corypheus’ general, and planning to kill the Inquisitor.

And she stood before him, a goddess, looking at him as if he were the only person in the world.

Maker, was this what it felt like to win?

He rose, out of courtesy, and held out his hand. She took it, and he noted the black designs limned on her arms, the heavy coral and gold bracelets, the rings, and her lacquered nails. She took her place beside him and they sat together as a priestess read them the rites to bind them. Prayers were said, in Rivaini and the King’s Tongue alike, and vows were exchanged.

Neither one of them said much in this, and it was obvious from the way they looked at one another, that words were meaningless.

And then it was over, they embraced for the first time as husband and wife, and Samson kissed her soundly, wondering if it would be different.

They left him little time to ruminate, as the celebrations picked up immediately. The music continued, and the crowd urged Hadiza and her new husband to dance. Samson, knowing he couldn’t dance his way off of hot coals, tried to decline, but even Aja, Dorian, and Feynriel were urging him. So he stood, and they laughed as Hadiza walked him through several steps of a dance, while Fasadé sang their story, making it up as it unraveled before all assembled. And the feast!

Samson could not argue with Rivaini cooking, spicy as it was. He developed a fondness for the speared, sun-dried meat called _kilishi_ , and the drink called _furada nono_. He loved the sweetened taste of the cow’s milk, offsetting the salt and spice of the camel meat that was _kilishi_. Samson remembered Kirkwall, and ate heartily, thankful for the bounty.

Hadiza danced and cast magic as she did, harmless little blips of fairy fire, and was joined by half a dozen cousins, young mages still new to their powers and reveling in the legend that was the Inquisitor. They would brag to their parents and peers later that they could claim blood-kin of her, and she allowed it, entertaining them with tales of her exploits in the south. Dorian, who was surprisingly good natured, joined her, and between the two of them, wove the story they had lived in the last two years.

While they left out the painful parts, the children took joy in the dragon fights.

Vivienne was engaged in a conversation with Djeneba, her expression pensive, and then she laughed and smiled, and Samson grew concerned. He had never seen the woman so at ease before. It was at once unsettling, and comforting to know she had found something to like about Rivain.

Hadiza managed to extricate herself from the festivities and find him, and he met her with a kiss, just as enthusiastic as before.

“Have to make sure you’re real,” he said to her, making her laugh.

“Oh,” she murmured, “I’m real.” Samson tried to rest his forehead against her, but that heavy ruby got in the way, making them both smile.

“You look ready for bed.” She told him, and Samson grinned.

“Oh,” he mimicked her, “I am.” He smoothed his hand up one of her arms, relishing the feel of her, along her bare shoulder, fingertips tracing the visible edge of her mage mark along her chest.

Hadiza gazed at him from beneath her lashes.

“Come with me.” Samson said, and she took his hand, letting him lead her back toward the house.

* * *

The celebration died down when the night began to deepen and the stars shone brightly. Drums and flutes were packed away, and drunken patrons stumbled back to the guest wing of the estate, some merely camped upon the couches and cushions in the pavilion littered with the soft, velvety petals of orange blossoms. The wedding had been extravagant, encompassing their newfound family and bonds forged in the heat of battle as well as by blood.

Of course, as per tradition, the family marched bride and groom all the way to their bedchamber, singing bawdy lyrics and pelting them with flowers the entire way. Of course, Samson and Hadiza put an end to it as they crossed the threshhold, Samson shutting the door in the faces of laughing family members. The laughter faded as the crowd dispersed down the hall, and soon, the heavy perfumed silence of the bedchamber was all that remained.

He was alone with her. Hadiza. His _wife_. Maker, it was hard to fathom it, to think he’d asked her and she’d said yes, that her family had taken to him as if he were one of their own...despite the jests of his pale skin, rheumy eyes, and thinning hair. Still, they’d seen the love between them, and did nothing to dissuade their union.

“Raleigh.” Hadiza breathed his name in the darkness, shaped it with something no mortal tongue could ever hope to do justice, and he met her eyes, lined with heavy kohl and shimmering golden dust. He still couldn’t believe how beautiful she looked. Perhaps it was the wedding, or perhaps it was just her, he didn’t know, but she bestowed herself not unlike a goddess this day. Her hair was bound up in an elaborate shape, twined around flexible wire and woven with bright gold and coral jewelry, a single teardrop ruby locked in gold frame hanging on her brow.

“I don’t want to ruin your...” He began, reaching up to brush his fingers against her cheek. She shut her eyes, the lids painted gold, her mouth stained a deep and rich crimson, and then reached up to placed her hand atop his. Samson thought he would be assaulted with feelings of worthlessness, standing before her like that. The coral necklace he’d been given matched her own, and he felt as if this were all some elaborate dream. Any moment now he would wake, cold, starving, and miserable in the streets of Kirkwall as the market roused for the day. Hadiza smiled at him, opening her eyes.

“Kiss me.” She told him and Samson obeyed her, compelled by a fierce dichotomy of love and lust. Was he worthy, now? Would he **ever** be worthy of her? As he kissed her, he was gentle, listening to the chiming cadence of her heavy gold earrings, drowning himself in the powdery scent of her perfume, suddenly achingly aware that she was his wife.

He didn’t stop kissing her, even as those feelings of self-doubt threatened to make him stop. No, he was worthy of her; this was not defilement, this was not even worship. This was veneration. He offered himself to her and she took him, all of him, cupped his face in her henna-limned hands and whispered tender words into his mouth. Not a benediction, no; a declaration, a promise. She would love him always, until they no longer drew breath, until all they were was dust and ash. Samson reveled in it, felt his soul purged of something ugly and unclean, the perfidious root of something torn from him allowing new life to thrive therein. He had earned this, earned her trust, her friendship, her love.

Maker, he was _worthy of her_.

He disrobed her carefully, peeled away layers of richly embroidered fabric to reveal the woman beneath. It was not as if he had not seen her flesh dozens of times before, it was that he felt he was seeing her anew. The henna designs whorled along the length of her legs, up her arms to the elbow, dusted with gold. Her belt of beads, called a _jigida_ , lay across her taut waist, colorful and containing their own magic. The fabric of her gown pooled at her feet, and she stepped from it, the bells on her ankles tinkling prettily. Hadiza knew she was beautiful--Maker she _knew_ what she did to him--and she deliberately stepped into a shaft of moonlight that he might better see what awaited him.

Samson felt his mouth go dry, blood flooding to his groin in an almost painful arousal. This was not defilement, he kept telling himself, this was veneration.

The moonlight limned her in silver, but made her skin glimmer from the golden dust the women had sprinkled it with. With her hair bound up in the coral crown, it made her look the part of some fabled queen of old.

“Hadiza, you look...” There would never be words enough to describe her this night, only actions, thought, and fervor. He went to her, disrobing as he closed the gap between them and they met, skin to skin, kissing again, his hands smoothing over her glimmering flesh, callouses rough against the satin feel of her. This time, her kiss echoed the hot, coiled tension of his arousal, lips parting to as she yielded to him. Her arms came around his neck as he backed her toward the bed, heedless of the scattered orange blossoms on the duvet. They fell as one, and the scent rose up around them, heady and sublime, the petals bruised and crushed against Hadiza’s back.

It was not enough. Samson needed to taste her, to know her once more, and he wasted no time, reluctantly pulling away from her mouth to get at whatever flesh came first. Her neck, where her pulse beat like a trapped thing beneath his lips, and then her shoulder, nipping the curve between his sharp teeth, her breast, which he dwelled upon, laving each nipple with his tongue. He traversed the taut plane of her belly, smiling to himself when she laughed quietly, squirming beneath him.

He was pleased when she let out a sound of frustration when he skipped desire and went to kiss her inner thighs instead. Hadiza draped her legs over his shoulders, sitting up on her elbows to watch him. He gazed up at her on his knees, and knew without a doubt that he was exactly where he wanted to be.

“You’ve the look of an amused goddess on your face, princess,” Samson murmured, his breath hot and moist against her knee, which he turned to kiss tenderly. Hadiza’s smile softened.

“Amused, yes...” She told him, “But hardly a goddess.” She grinned as he kissed her calf, his hand sliding down, gently holding her foot, his thumb applying pressure to the tender arch, making her groan.

“Tonight you are nothing less than that,” Samson assured her, “have you seen yourself?” He kissed her heel, traced the arch of her foot with his lips, making her giggle. Hadiza licked her lips.

“I may have passed by a mirror once.” She murmured coyly, wiggling her toes as he kissed each one. Samson chuckled, the sound rumbling in his chest like a distant storm, placing her leg back on his shoulder only to turn his attention to the other, giving it the same tender treatment. This time, Hadiza did not giggle, silver eyes glittering as she watched him bless every part of her with a kiss.

“Well,” He mused, sliding back up until her hips were forced to tilt upward, “I’m going to remind you that you are one of the most stunning women to ever walk the face of Thedas.” He lowered his head, parting her with a breath and the slide of his tongue. Hadiza’s arms trembled and she struggled to maintain composure. He gave another pass of his tongue, slower, lingering on her clit, which he circled indulgently. Hadiza moaned, drawing in a shuddering breath, her hands grabbing fistfuls of petals and the duvet. Samson began his onslaught, shutting his eyes as he buried his nose and mouth in the soft, damp curls of her sex.

Hadiza shivered, head tipping back, a wail spiraling into the air. She said his name involuntarily, unable to form the words in her mind suitable for anything but pleading and beseeching encouragement. Spurred by her cries, Samson pushed her legs further back, seeking the swollen bundle of nerves to wrap his lips around. He sucked gently, listening to the symphony of pleasure he composed when he swiped his tongue way, applied this much pressure with his lips, or moved to lick around her entrance, her slick coating his tongue. To him, she was ambrosia, and he a mortal desperate for a taste of the divine. He felt her coming apart, felt the seismic tremors building, her cries becoming louder and more erratic. As her control slipped, she spread herself wider for him, giving him as much as he needed and wanted, begging him to take all of her.

He did, and with one last bit of pressure applied, Hadiza came undone, unraveling in a series of shudders as her hips jerked involuntarily against him. She rode the sensation until stars burst across her vision, until the room came back into new and sharp focus.

“Raleigh!” She gasped, surprised at her own release. Samson drew away from her slowly, bestowing her sex with wet and tender kisses, licking his lips, her slick coating his chin. Hadiza sat up fully.

“Come _here_.” She whispered and he did, letting her guide him onto his back. She was a bit forceful, and he laughed at her impatience.

“Never been ridden by a goddess before,” he said with that wolfish grin she loved all too well, “should be fun.”

“Shut up.” She breathed, straddling him, reaching behind her to fit the blunt head of his cock to her entrance. As punishment she refused to sheathe him within her, opting instead to slide the head back and forth along her slit. Samson groaned despite everything, grabbing his hair and tugging. She knew how that drove him up a wall with desire, the minx. Hadiza looked down at him, and he knew in that moment he was lost. There was no way anyone else would do. 

Slowly, agonizingly wonderful, she sank down onto him until she was fully seated. Her eyelids flickered briefly, and a little groan slithered up her throat to escape her parted lips. Samson, for his part, hissed through clenched teeth, trying to build up the walls so he could survive her. She fit him like a dream, stretching around him with a lascivious familiarity. He would never tire of being inside of her, of how she worked along the length of him like hot, wet velvet. And she hadn’t even begun to move.

“Take your time, princess,” he ground out, hands coming to her hips, sliding up her sides to cup her breasts, “we’ve got all night.” His thumbs slowly circled her nipples, and he knew from the look on her face that it was enough to get her moving. She came up slowly, then down, and Samson groaned, uninhibited in his desire. She was as wet as tears and hotter than a smith’s forge! Maker if he could he’d be inside her all day. He planned to revisit this come morning, to see her glory in the light of day, with coral in her hair and gold dripping from her earlobes.

Hadiza rode him, slowly and smoothly, her stomach working as her hips undulated, sliding him in and then out. Samson imagined for a moment how it must have looked, those pretty lips split around his cock, gleaming from her slick. It was enough to make his balls tight, and he slid his hands back down to her hips, but not to guide her. He wanted to feel every rise and fall, every tremor in her spine. And as he reached between them, he wanted to feel just how much he could get from her with a continuous rub of her clit in the process.

He got his answer in the form of a whispered swear, and she planted her hands on his chest, grabbing at the hair, using him as leverage as she upped her tempo, building and building until she no longer cared for self-control. Samson growled and laughed at the same time, delivering a hard slap to her rear, the sound echoing in the room as she cried out.

“That’s my girl,” he breathed, shutting his eyes in bliss, “get us there.”

_There_ was close for him, now, and Hadiza knew it. He kept at her clit, thumbing it at random intervals, using it as a spur to goad her into further reckless abandon. And when her control slipped, he grasped her hips, pumping his own upward into her, drowning out her cries in the prominent sound of his flesh meeting hers. Her breasts bounced, the bells on her ankles tinkling in time to his brutal cadence. The pressure at the base of his spine built, and suddenly, with a grunt through gritted teeth, he pinned her to him, his cock twitching as he spent himself with a long, drawn-out groan. Hadiza shuddered around him as he pulled her down to kiss her, drinking down her quiet whimpers of residual pleasure.

It was some time as they lay there, the air cooling their sweatslick flesh, his arms still around her. Hadiza’s vision returned, and she blinked away the stars in her eyes. Samson turned his head to brush her ear with his lips, groaning when his cock, now soft, slipped from her. Hadiza sighed, feeling the sticky slick of his seed and her own fluid commingling, wetting her inner thighs. When she moved to get up, Samson’s arms tightened around her.

“Stay...” He murmured, “Just a bit longer.”

For a moment, she was confused.

“I’m not leaving,” she assured him, “I’d never leave.”

Samson chuckled. “I just want to see if I wake up and find out this was a dream is all.”

Hadiza shared a sad smile with the darkness of the room, and turned her head to kiss him gently. He returned it, and his smile was neither smug nor wolfish. It was...it was content.

“I love you.” He said, freely, carelessly, as if it were the first time he’d ever breathed the words, and the weight of them held them both in place, anchoring them to one another. Hadiza smiled, shutting her eyes.

_He was worthy of her_.

* * *

The Queen of Rivain sent her response, and with it, came news from the Inquisition itself. Hadiza silently praised Ariadne’s prowess at managing to slip her missives in amongst those of the Queen’s own courier, and wondered how she’d managed to do it. However, as she read through the letters, she grew increasingly less content.

The Queen found no real cause to take action against the Qunari for the transgression, even though Kano was lost to the dragon attack. She would send her own contingent of architects and soldiers to aid in rebuilding, and remand the housing of refugees to Zazzau, but without verifiable evidence, she could not in good conscience breach the peace achieved.

Hadiza let out an angry shout.

“She’s sitting on her damned hands!” Hadiza cried, “An entire village of eye witnesses corroborate the story, and she does nothing! Maker!” She angrily bit off a piece of _masa_ , chewing and then washing it down with mango juice. Samson watched her, crossing his arms.

“It’s the way of these types, princess. But there’s nothing we can do.” He told her, “You march up here bearing the Inquisition standard and you’ll have a war on your hands…and not the one you want, either.”

Hadiza froze. “I never said I wanted war.” She said to him. Samson shrugged.

“You want the Queen to punish the Qunari for their attack, and you let go of the only verifiable proof you had. She’s going to rebuild the village and restore those people to their homes. No more than that can you ask for.”

Hadiza laughed. “I never thought I’d see the day the Red General clamored for peace. The Qunari responsible got away.”

“And they will move again, when they see the Queen does nothing to bring them to justice,” Samson told her, “they’ll get sloppy, and then the Queen can handle it. She can turn her head away once, but not twice.”

Hadiza sighed, defeated.

The next letter drained her face of color, and she read it over and over again to be sure.

“What’s the matter?” Samson asked, knowing it was news from Skyhold.

Hadiza lowered the letter and made a small sound.

“The Divine has been petitioned to march on the Inquisition,” Samson blanched at the words, “but instead, has opted to call an Exalted Council regarding the Inquisition’s disbandment.”

Samson frowned. “Why would she do that? Wasn’t she your friend.” Hadiza shook her head, speechless.

“Orlais and Ferelden want the Inquisition off their lands immediately, and our forces dissolved piecemeal. Maker…I…” She came to the breakfast table and sat down.

Samson frowned, taking the letter to read from himself. It was there, in plain ink, written in Josephine’s flowing hand.

“Raleigh,” Hadiza said, “what do I do? I…where do I even begin to tackle this?”

Samson set the letter down and glanced outside of the window.

“We go home.”

* * *

The farewells were tearful, of course they were.

Hadiza said goodbye to her newfound family, embracing aunts, uncles, cousins, and kissing infants as House Fayé wished her well. Even Assane, who still viewed her with a degree of wariness, embraced her as family.

“You are a strange daughter,” he told her, “but Maribasse was always strange. Still, you are no longer ignorant in our ways. Mayhap you can teach those idiot southerners a thing or two about magic. Even though your training is not yet over.”

Hadiza laughed. It was the closest she would get to hearing him say he would miss her. Djeneba smiled warmly, folding her into an embrace and Hadiza swore she never wished to leave it.

“Thank you,” Hadiza whispered through her tears, “for everything.” Djeneba cupped Hadiza’s face and placed a kiss on the younger woman’s forehead. Hadiza felt a tingle in the roots of her hair, and blinked, wide eyed.

“That was…” She began and Djeneba put a finger to her lips. Hadiza nodded, turning to her friends, ready to leave.

“Inquisitor!” Oluremi called, coming up to her. Hadiza turned, blinking. Oluremi frowned, seemingly at odds with what she wished to say.

“You…” She began, “You are a powerful mage, and I have no doubt you have made many enemies in the south. And your templar is not a bad sort either. But there is still much work to be done with you if you are to beat me in a _fair_ fight.” Oluremi frowned as Babacar joined her side. “Babacar tell her.” She ordered.

“What she means to say is that she is sorry for her mistreatment and mistrust of you, and that she looks forward to your return when your business is concluded.” He laughed, and when Oluremi looked down at her feet, Babacar quickly kissed her cheek, startling her, her skin flushed dark. Hadiza grinned.

“I see.” She said coyly, “Well, I look forward to returning here to complete my training as well. And perhaps next time we meet in the pit you all will not be so fearsome.”

“Oh I doubt that,” Ajisayé said, “but it’s endearing that you think you stand a chance, Inquisitor.” The woman grinned, and Hadiza was unsure whether to feel leery or to run away at the sight of those pointed teeth.

Feynriel opted to stay and continue his studies with the seers of Rivain.

“Are you sure?” Hadiza asked softly, “We could use a dreamer back home.” Feynriel smiled and blushed.

“Thank you, Inquisitor, but I’d very much like to stay. There’s so much the seers here can teach me about spirits and the like. Even though it is uncommon for the men to possess the gift here. Aside, I know how to find you.”

Hadiza laughed. “Do not enter my dreams uninvited, Feynriel.” She warned.

“Would never think of it, Inquisitor.” He promised and they embraced.

They were well-supplied, and Hadiza packed her mother’s armor away in its chest. Their mounts were fresh and outfitted in traditional Rivaini riding regalia, with hassled fly nets for their ears, braided manes and tails, and bells on the bridles. Samson found the frippery to be strategically inane, and packed away plain bridles, saddles, and the like for when they were back in the Marches and made their way back to Skyhold.

As they mounted up, Hadiza looked back and knew she would miss this place that had been home to her for several months. She turned and faced the east.

“Ready?” Aja asked her, and Hadiza grinned, lifting her hand. She shot three arcane bolts into the air, and they exploded in a shower of light. She heard with a flush of pleasure, children cheering in the courtyard at the sight.

“Let’s go save the Inquisition.” Hadiza said, and they were off, heading home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Lele_ \- Henna, _mehndi_ , whatever you call it in your language.
> 
> Some of y'all have already seen this smut scene, which I had planned to put in this fic from the beginning. Yes, there was a wedding. That's the plan. No kids, but there was always going to be a marriage.
> 
> As usual, leave comments, feelings, thoughts, wishes, and dreams below.


	36. Unmasked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> E X P O S I T I O N ! ! !

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically the tail-end of the _Trespasser_ DLC, and what Hadiza does afterward. We 're at the homestretch, guys.

“Solas.”

The word—the _name_ —did not tangle her tongue as he thought it would. She had been saying it for some time, had been reading it late at night since first the Qunari breathed it in her ear. The name was limned in her suffering, carrying upon it the weight of all she had endured to reach him, and for a moment, it seemed as if he ignored her.

“Fen’Harel.” She said instead, her tone more forceful, and he did turn to look at her over his shoulder, taking her in. Her torn clothing, ruined armor, and rapidly deteriorating arm, veins of green creeping along her skin, making it bleed. She glared at him through one eye, the other swollen shut, her hair disheveled.

Solas—now Fen’Harel—turned to face the Inquisitor, regarding her with a quiet gravity, the way one might regard a child that had done something most unexpected.

“So,” he said, his voice inflectionless, “you know.”

Hadiza struggled to stand upright and he made no move to help her as he would have in the past. Instead, he watched her sway on her feet, struggling to find footing that grounded her. When she was still, she regarded him through her undamaged eye, meeting his cool and detached gaze with one of curiosity.

“I admit…” She said, “I did not want to believe it at first, but after what I have seen, I leave nothing to chance.” She spit on the ground at her side, a mixture of phlegm and blood, and then winced as the Anchor bit into her, spreading beyond her elbow. Solas narrowed his eyes.

“You’re almost out of time, Inquisitor,” he said, “I suspect you have questions.”

Hadiza laughed, a dry and brittle sound.

“Maker do I ever,” she said with a mirthless chuckle, wincing again, “I have so many questions for you. But we’ll start with the most important one: what the hell is going on here?”

Solas said nothing, but when she winced, the mark flaring in her hand, engulfing her arm in verdant tendrils of raw Fade, his eyes flashed once, and the Anchor fell silent. Hadiza’s tension was visible in the way it unspooled, loosening her muscles as she sagged in a sigh of relief. Solas came to stand over her.

He began to answer her question, and with each revelation, Hadiza’s expression grew more and more alarmed. When he revealed his plans for the Conclave, she felt her stomach bottom out, her heart dropping to her feet as the realization of what was happening dawned on her.

“Why would…” She whispered, disbelieving, “Why would you do such a thing? What purpose could it possibly serve?”

Solas did not deign to answer her, and Hadiza saw, from her vantage point, that his gaze seemed far away, as if he were looking toward a future that was not one they would ever share. He never once looked down at her. She recalled his words from before, of how he sneered and scoffed at Corypheus’ claim to godhood, even as he himself schemed to pull the self-same trick. Hadiza felt the pain electrify her arm again, nerves on fire, and only then did Solas turn his gaze to her.

“We are out of time.” He said, reaching for her arm, “The Qunari are defeated, and will likely turn their attentions once more to Tevinter. That should buy you a few years of relative peace.”

Hadiza swore at him; he cast her a withering glare, but said nothing. When Corypheus had attempted to remove the Anchor, it had been a struggle, both for himself, and for Hadiza, who had felt as if he were attempting to tear her bones out through her hand.

With Solas, it was quick. Painful, but swift, and he dropped her arm, bloody and glowing green, hanging limply by her side.

“Your compassion was always more than what I expected, Inquisitor Trevelyan,” Solas said, his eyes glowing briefly as the power he’d reclaimed settled within him once more, “and I hope you maintain it in the years to come. It is for that that I must apologize.”

Hadiza felt the pain bloom in her arm again, and looked down. Truly, the sight of it was more horrifying than the accompanying pain, and as Solas watched for a moment, Hadiza clutched her arm, as bits of her skin began to slough off, glowing green, and then disintegrating. She stared in horror at the exposed bone, and then watched it dissolve, as Solas walked away, through the eluvian, Hadiza’s screams of agony piercing the ancient tranquility of the Crossroads.

* * *

The mirror didn’t start working until later, and Samson barreled through it, heedless of the stone corpses of the Qunari, heedless of whether or not it was a trap, wanting only to know that Hadiza was alive. Dorian, Aja, and Vivienne were close behind, calling out to him. Samson’s lungs burned, every muscle in his body burned in a way it hadn’t before, but he was a year free of the lyrium— _all_ lyrium—and he knew he’d die a man unchained.

But he would die before her.

“Hadiza!” Samson climbed the steps leading to the largest eluvian he’d seen in this insane misadventure, and found her curled in front of it, blood smeared along its placid surface. Samson ran to her, and saw her clothes, soaked in blood.

“Maker!” He whispered, “Pavus!” He gingerly rolled Hadiza over, feeling his heart clench at the gory sight. Her sleeve was torn, rent to bloodstained tatters likely by her own hand, and her arm…

“Ah, Maker’s Breath…” Samson groaned, mourning her loss.

“Samson where are— _kaffas_ …!” Dorian was brought up short and for a rare moment in his life, his tongue was as well. He stared in abject horror before his sense returned, and he was kneeling alongside Samson, trying to revive Hadiza.

“She lives,” Dorian said seriously, “but barely. Maker, Hadiza, how do you keep getting yourself into trouble like this?” His hands passed over the severe wound, attempting to repair the flesh but even magic could not fix this.

“We need to get her back to the palace,” Vivienne said, and her voice, usually cool and composed, held a tremor of fear in it. Hadiza was not moving, and her blood soaked the hungry earth around them, smeared the eluvian mirror in front of them, and yet she lay still, her breath shallow.

Aja was hysterical, demanding they find Solas so that she might extract his head as payment, or the Qunari—whomever had mutilated her sister thus. It was Vivienne who calmed her, reasoned with the Reaver, already half-mad from the battle earlier, pupils and iris alike ringed with red. It was only when Vivienne was sure Aja was calm that she helped Dorian and Samson in moving Hadiza, heading back toward the eluvians to return to the Winter Palace.

It was likely the only time any of them save Vivienne had been so glad to go to Orlais.

* * *

She remembered only snatches of conversations. Words lost in shadow, the angry shouting at one point as surgeons peered down at her. She remembered coming alive with pain as her wound was cleansed and cauterized, the smell of her own sizzling flesh making her gag. Hadiza remembered precious little in those hectic hours—days?—when her life ebbed and flowed along the live wire of her agony. She cried out during the procedure, and when she was forced to drink a tincture of elfroot and poppy essence, she moaned and slurred, her bod heavy and sluggish.

And she slept. Maker, she slept like the dead, aware of nothing beyond her consciousness, the world becoming a smatter of watercolor in the rain as she slept away the pain, begging for the poppy essence when it returned, formidable and vengeful.

Throughout, she dreamt of her own death, wishing it, hoping the next time the tincture took her under would be the last. Surely here, now, in her death-like sleep, there could only ever be peace?

Even then, she dreamed of outlandish things. Seven eyes smirked at her from the shadows, the silhouette of horns against the sickly green of an alien sky, and Solas’ words spoken from a demon’s tongueless mouth. Everything flowed, disjointed and without theme or reason, making her sleep as fitful as ever.

And then one day, she simply woke, the familiar anguish in her left arm returning in force. She sat up, but fell backward onto the pillow, winded as she struggled to right herself. She went to use both hands as leverage and found herself off balance.

And then she looked down, and remembered.

Hadiza opened her mouth but no sound emerged. She hadn’t dreamt it, and it had not been a side-effect of the poppy, or some sort of ancient elven magic. Her left arm was bandaged, and ended just below the elbow. The bandages were russet with blood, which stained the towels that had been placed atop the sheets to minimize the mess her bleeding made. Hadiza moved her left arm, and watched the stump respond.

“Hadiza.” Samson’s voice was hoarse at her bedside, and she turned her head slowly to look at him. He looked as weary as he did when she brought him in from the Arbor Wilds. The bruises under his eyes had returned, and they were bloodshot from lack of sleep. He wore only his tunic, breeches, and boots, and his hands were clasped as if in prayer.

“Samson.” Hadiza responded in a voice she did not recognize. She had never heard the notes of true weariness in her own voice.

“Thank the Maker you’re awake.” He said to her and she went to him as he came to her, gathering her in his arms as if she were precious and fragile, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, “Don’t ever scare me like that again. Maker! I thought…”

Hadiza smiled weakly. “No. I know.” She told him and when she reached up to cup his face in her hands, as she had always done, she was reminded that that too was a luxury she could not longer afford.

Samson saw her surprise and confusion, her uncertainty, and took her right hand and lifted it to his lips to kiss the knuckles, again and again.

“You’re going to be fine.” He assured her, “I promise.”

Hadiza didn’t truly have the strength to nod. She felt weak, and knew her diet had likely consisted of little more than broth and water to keep up her strength.

The days of recovery were hell, and Hadiza avoided mirrors even then, trying to help her advisors and companions piece together what had happened.

And then she got angry all over again when she realized what needed to be done.

* * *

The day she marched into the Exalted Council, they were discussing the terms for the Inquisition’s disbandment, and Hadiza let her spite fuel her, as she stood before them, holding up the treatise written by the previous Divine for all to see.

“You all know what this is?” She asked, and waited for no answer because she knew this group of people would never have answers.

“That’s the only thing I—and the Inquisition—are required to answer to,” Hadiza said, putting on her mask for the last time, “and we made you all a promise to fix the mess and find out who is responsible. You have heard the stories. I fought bandits, dragons, and countless demons to keep your lands safe. While you cowered and allowed yourselves to be torn apart by inane civil war,” she glared at the Orlesians in the room, “I took in your refugees and gave them a purpose and work to do, when you burned them out of their homes and destroyed their livelihoods for petty squabbles.”

She turned her awful gaze on Bann Teagan, “And when you let a Tevinter magister take control of your lands, what did you do to stop it? The same thing you did when the Hero of Ferelden had to come to your aid these thirteen years past, I imagine.” She tossed the book on the floor before them all, uncaring, and completely furious.

“I have shed blood, sweat, and tears to keep Thedas safe. And I have expended coin and resources in the effort it took to dislodge your collective heads from your asses to defeat Corypheus. And now, I have sacrificed a literal piece of myself to save you from the Qunari, and you have the unmitigated _gall_ to claim I dragged you into a war of your own making. Not today, nor any other day, will I stand for it.”

Hadiza’s anger was tight and controlled. “I say now it is your turn to sacrifice—to feel the pain of shedding parts of yourself for the greater good, to let your blood nurture the ground in an effort to protect all you hold dear. You will not take all that I’ve worked for from me, nor will you ever diminish my sacrifice or the sacrifice of countless others who no longer draw breath today that you might sit here and judge our words and deeds as if you have any right to do so. And so, effective immediately, the Inquisition is disbanded…by my own decree and my own hand.” She heard the gasps and murmurs, and ignore them.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am going to go and save the world… _again_. You all can find someone else save _you_.”

She left them there, and as she passed through the doors, she felt the last vestige of _The Inquisitor_ fall away. Only Hadiza remained.

Alive. But in pieces.

* * *

Hercinia was quiet.

It had been a year since the Inquisition disbanded, and Maker, he could not have asked for a better city to settle in. And even then, he and Hadiza had agreed to build their home outside of the city, away from the bustle of it, closer to the sea, where they could hear the ocean in the distance, and the cry of the gulls along the shore. It took many months, and with the aid of Hadiza’s spoils from the Inquisition, the aid of her sister who was now Lady Trevelyan in full, they were able to build a decent enough home. Small enough that it was manageable between the two of them, but large enough if they ever wanted company.

In the early days, there was plenty of company, and a steady correspondence from old friends. Aja and Josie sent mementos from Antiva, and Hadiza had never heard her sister so happy in life. Leliana opted to take Cassandra onto counsel to aid with the continued reforms in the Chantry. Hadiza and Vivienne kept up a lively correspondence, and although Vivienne said she would never be able to make it all the way out to the rustic charm of the Free Marches, that she and her ‘disgraceful’ husband were always welcome in her home in Val Royeaux.

Samson had a few choice words to reply to Vivienne but Hadiza batted him away, sending her love and greetings to her friend. The only person Hadiza could not seemingly contact was Ariadne, and even though no one knew where she’d vanished to, Hadiza occasionally received mysterious missives bearing cryptic words. She and Samson made a game of it, decoding the words to divine the message within.

Blackwall had gone to Weißhaupt, presumably to join the other Wardens. With no order in Ferelden or Orlais, anymore, it was the only place he could go. She received letters from him every few months, and then received nothing. A year later, she received a shield, his helmet, and a griffon feather.

She mourned him, and Samson helped her hang the shield up above the mantle, right next to his own. The helmet, Hadiza locked away in her mother’s chest, and preserved the griffon feather in a small jar.

Iron Bull had taken his Chargers to fight Vints, and Hadiza heard from Dorian often that the mercenary band often fought near the border, where he would then meet with the Qunari, who had, over time, become his lover. That surprised Hadiza only slightly, and being he romantic that she was, she was cheered by the news.

She received word from Cullen—and his damned Mabari from the drool stains on the page—that his sanctuary had come along well, and many templars who found themselves lost and in need of aid, had come to recover. Hadiza shared the news with Samson, who had openly wept with pride for it. The two men had long since mended their friendship, and Samson and Hadiza took a trip to Ferelden to visit personally. She had never seen Samson so moved before, but she understood what it meant to him, and watched as Cullen and Samson embraced, an unspoken bond between them, with uncharted text Hadiza was not privy to. They tarried in Ferelden for two weeks, and Cullen rolled his eyes at his Mabari’s fondness for Hadiza, who enjoyed long walks through the scenic grounds, the large dog tagging at her heels.

“I thought they were only loyal to their masters,” Samson remarked and Cullen rolled his eyes.

“They are. But ever since she brought him dog treats in Halamshiral, he’s taken to thinking she’s in charge when she’s around.”

Samson laughed. “Yes. Well. That’s Hadiza, for you.”

For all that, life was good most days. Hadiza learned to look in the mirror, taking several minutes a day to stare at her reflection, blinking as she examined her body, scarred, tattooed, and short one arm. Her hand went to the scar tissue of the stump on her left arm, and when she pressed she felt the pain, wincing. She thought, for a moment, she could feel the flex and grip of the fingers of her left hand, and then the image of her watching her arm dissolve before her eyes flashed into the present and she turned away from her reflection.

To his credit, Samson aided her, helping to tie off her left sleeve when she dressed, and making an almost reverent ritual of dressing her, trying to get her to smile by tickling the backs of her knees, making jokes about how she made no claims to godhood, and yet…

Hadiza suffered his bad jokes, and laughed when he tickled her.

For a while, she did not find the heart to make love to him. With the scars of her own making, she could tolerate, and Samson thought no less of her for it, understanding the source of her pain. With this newest injury, this one inflicted by someone else, Hadiza could not reconcile her reflection with what she had always seen in her mind’s eye.

And Samson was patient with her, never once speaking about it when she did not bring it up herself.

Life continued apace, and over time, she learned to walk with balance, smiling as she got used to the lack of counterweight her left arm provided.

“You never realize how your body fits together until a piece of it goes missing.” She said to Samson one day, as he helped her with her daily exercises to keep the strength up. Samson smiled.

For her Name Day, Samson went into the city to bring a physician. Having seen injuries like hers before, the older man suggested a mirror box. Hadiza, curious, wondered what that was. She had never dealt with amputation in the Circle, and it was an injury beyond her abilities when she’d helped in the Inquisition. But when the physician brought her a mirror box, and explained how it worked, she wept.

It was, perhaps, one of the greatest gifts she ever received.

And so Hadiza used the mirror box to come to terms with her reflection, and over the months, she worked easier. Samson would rub the soothing aloe on the skin of her arm to help the scar tissue heal faster, and then massage the almond oil into it that it might heal cleanly.

And winter came, and Hadiza received intelligence from Dorian that there may have been a way to stop Solas.

The war with the Qunari had weakened Tevinter considerably, as most of their resources were expended defending against them, and in the wake of this weakness, slaves in Tevinter had begun to run away. The chains that bound them were struck, and with Tevinter’s mages turned toward the war, it was hard to retrieve them. To that, Hadiza could not feel any measure of sympathy. She had told Dorian time and again that slavery was an abhorrent and antiquated practice.

Samson was quiet during this correspondence with the communication crystal, but when she finished, he drew her into their bedroom to speak.

“I have a contact in Tevinter that may be able to help.” He told her and Hadiza brightened.

“Really? Who?” She pressed, “And why are you just now telling me this?”

Samson frowned. “I wasn’t sure they were still around.”

Hadiza snorted. “Get to the point.”

Samson hesitated. “I can’t give you too much information because I don’t want their operation compromised. I met them in Kirkwall, before I left with Corypheus. Maker…”

And so he told her, told her everything he could remember, gave her a name, a description, even drafted a letter in his own hand to send off.

“If they get this, they’ll know it’s me. Otherwise they’ll go to ground and your shot will be lost.” Hadiza watched him intently, and he reached for his kerchief, and coughed into it.

It came away bloody.

Hadiza went to the kitchen to begin preparing the draught, but Samson stopped her.

“No, princess,” he told her, “can’t drink that shit anymore. I’ve been off the lyrium too long. Won’t do much good anyway. Just…let me get this letter sent out.”

And so Hadiza watched, apprehensive, the healer in her screaming to do something as Samson drafted a letter. He did not seal it with anything but plain wax, and wrapped it in oilskin. The ravens they’d taken with them from the Inquisition were trained, and Samson sent the letter with confidence that the raven would reach its destination.

Samson’s cough persisted throughout the night, and Hadiza finally talked him into drinking the tincture, if for nothing else then to sooth the pain. He drank it, and she watched him as he slept, monitoring his breathing.

Thus, did their days persist, good and bad, dull and exciting.

The next morning, Samson went to the Chantry, and Hadiza smiled when he returned, seeing a sense of peace suffused in his face she’d not seen before. He rubbed his aching knees, and when he saw her, he swept her up in his arms and kissed her.

Somehow, the light of the Chant had found its way into his heart again, and though Hadiza was no longer a devout Andrastian, embracing only the truth and compassion shaped by her own life, she was overjoyed for him. He had attended the Chantry sparingly over the years since they married, but she had never seen him so balanced.

It gave her joy.

And then that night, for the first time since before the Exalted Council, they made love. It was awkward at first, and Hadiza forgot herself when she could try to cling to him and finding her grip incomplete, but Samson helped her, guided her, kissed away her tears. She relaxed, and let him take them. It was likely the most tender thing between them, and not a word was spoken as they lay in languorous silence, gazing up at the skylight ceiling.

Their thoughts touched, and so they did not speak, and instead, intertwined their fingers, ruminating on all that came before. Samson felt, for the first time, that he deserved this. He had done penance, and though he carried the blood of innocents on his soul, he had found salvation when he took _her_ hand and let her guide him back to the light.

He squeezed her hand, making her laugh.

“I think _this_ is what it feels like,” Samson told her, “to come home.”

Hadiza smiled, eyes closing.

“Mm.” She murmured, “Welcome home, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave your comments below. :)


	37. EPILOGUE: Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, guys.

It was a typical warm and moist Kirkwall day, and the commingling stench of human excrement, chicken shit, actual chickens, and the stench of human uncleanliness clogged her nostrils, overlain with the brine-tinged scent of the sea air. When Hadiza disembarked, she had expected it, but Maker’s mercy was it a far cry from Ostwick. This was a city carved into the very stone, and it dwarfed Ostwick in its height, and even with the damage from the fiasco these seven years past, she could still feel and see the severity of the architecture.

Everything about it was shaped in cruelty and dominance, echoing the Imperium of old, where the song of chains, and the moans of beleaguered slaves ran concurrent to the bustle of the bazaars and the murmurs on the docks. She had tarried a week, and when she received word from Cullen, she made her way back into Lowtown and to the docks to meet him. They embraced tightly, and Hadiza stepped back to look at him. He was older, wiser, but the shadows that had perpetually lurked beneath his eyes had long since fled, and there was something calm in his gaze, something steady and untouchable that warmed her heart.

Peace. That was what it was. He had reached peace.

“You look well,” she told him, and meant it, smiling brightly. Cullen laughed, and the lines of his face smoothed away briefly.

“And you are still as lovely as ever.” He said back. Hadiza laughed.

“Oh shut up, I know you don’t mean a word of it.” She teased, and they both laughed.

Later, they went to the Hanged Man, and while Hadiza had no attachment to the place, she had vowed to see it before she went home. They drank the piss-poor, rotgut wine, and the swill that passed for ale, and as the day wore on, she and Cullen laughed, remembering old times. Hadiza ordered fish and egg pie, and Cullen laughed, shaking his head. She smiled as he declined her offer to share.

“How on earth did he convince you it was good?” He asked, watching her eat heartily. She paused, thinking to herself.

“You know, I can’t recall,” she laughed, “I just…it just grew on me, I suppose. Now I eat it once a week.”

Cullen watched her, smiling. And then it was sunset.

They went to the docks, watching as vendors closed up shop for the evening, and mothers called their wayward children back home. Elves, who had become few and far between, returned to the alienage from their work in the rich homes of Hightown, and sailors returned to their ships to berth for the night. Hadiza and Cullen stood on the docks, and an evening breeze, fresh and clean and of the sea, ran through her hair like nascent fingers. This time, Samson joined them.

“Are you ready?” Cullen asked, and Hadiza smiled, shutting her eyes and breathing deep.

“Yes.” She replied and opened the urn.

“From earth we are born,” she recited, “and to earth we return. May your soul find rest at the Maker’s side. Welcome home, love.” She and Cullen took turns, pinch by pinch, spreading the ashes of a man the world had all but forgotten across the murky, lapping waters of the city he had called home, even when the city had used him up and spit him out. He had worn the Kirkwall standard until his illness had forced him to retire, leaving Hadiza to take up adventuring alone. The healers had given him months, and he’d fought it for five years. And when his illness became too much for even her skills to manage, she had taken him to Cullen’s sanctuary in Ferelden.

He passed a day after they arrived, the sun on his face, his memory burned away, and a smile on his dry lips.

Hadiza watched as the wind snatched the ashes from her fingers, watched as the man she loved vanished from the world forever. Cullen felt something in his heart give way, and he smiled sadly, hoping that Samson found the peace and tranquility in death that had eluded him in life.

When it was over, they stood quietly, words unnecessary, the sun sinking beneath the horizon, turning the waters golden, before vanishing completely. Night had fallen, and with it came the strange chill. Cullen held the empty urn in his hands, and did not question the tears that rolled silently down Hadiza’s cheeks, nor the ones that slid down his own.

They stayed in Kirkwall another day, sharing a meal at the Hanged Man. But with the last tie tethering them to Kirkwall severed and laid to rest, they saw no reason to linger. Hadiza turned her attentions west, toward Tevinter, while Cullen wished her well and made to prepare to journey back to Ferelden. He handed her a thick, folded parchment sealed with wax. Hadiza frowned when she saw the Inquisition’s mark in the wax, but Cullen merely smiled and told her it was imperative that she read it on her journey.

And so she did, on the sea voyage bound for Tevinter, she lay in her hammock aboardship, and nearly wept to see Samson’s firm and sure handwriting. It was his final letter to her, written likely when they had just been married from the date, when his memory and wits were still sharp, and Hadiza had hoped against all hope that her work and research could save him. She bit her lip, crying silently at the words. He was not a man who gave himself over to sentiment so easily, but she could hear his voice, see his smile, and could hear the rumbling chuckle he did when he knew he’d pleased her in some new and unexpected way.

 

_12 Kingsway 9:45 Dragon_

_Princess,_

_You’re probably already crying, aren’t you? Dry your eyes, girl. If you’re reading this, then I’m dead already and you’ve taken me home to Kirkwall. I know you, princess, and I know that’s what you’d do. Heart like an open book, and you let me scribble all over it. Alright, I’ve never been particularly good at this kind of thing, and I thought I’d put all the words I could never bring myself to say to you right here. Keep them with you always, and remember this. We’ll start with the obvious._

_I love you._

_I don’t think those words will ever do justice to how I feel for you, but I’m no poet. There’s no words to describe it. To say I love you is inadequate, because it was more than that. It grew in me, like a garden left untended. You're damned sunlight and rain to me, and I don't think I've ever felt more at home or happier than when you looked at me everyday the way you did. I thought of little else but you, even with you right next to me. It was frustrating at times, but you were like a heartbeat to me, constant...and needed to remind me that I was here. That I was alive. That I still mattered in this world to someone._

_When we first met, I didn’t think much of you. Tall as the day is long, Maker bless you, and cocky. You thought you’d practically won. I guess, in some way, you already had. Planting seeds of doubt in me and then nurturing them, much like Corypheus had. But instead of rot sprouting, you made them grow. I didn’t look you in the eye out of some blind fear of you, but because I was unworthy. You believed so strongly that I was wrong, and I was, Maker knows I really made a mistake, but you also believed that I could fix myself._

_Did you really have to knock my tooth out like that?_

_It doesn’t matter, if I could do it all again, I wouldn’t change a thing, princess. Not if it meant I could walk back into the light with you._

_You asked me once about my faith, and it took a while, but I think I felt like a believer again the day we married. Not the big wedding your family in Rivain threw for us. It was nice, and I think I had to loosen my breeches for a full week after all that food. No, I mean the one we had in that little rundown hole of a Chantry in the backend of Ferelden. Just you and me, hand in hand—both of us in armor can you believe it?—before the Maker and a Chantry Mother. I said the words and meant them for the first time in years. And I have never seen a more beautiful woman than you looking at me like I was worth something. Like I was worth saving. And you looked at me like that everyday until the mind-rot started in._

_You held out your hand for a long time, and Maker bless your patient heart, took me long enough to take it and let you pull me forward._

_We’ve had some good years between us, princess, and some bad ones too. I’m sure my sickness wasn’t easy on you in those final days, and I’m sorry I forgot you. You know I would never want to do that, and I know you love me enough to know that. I can already taste the honey in my mouth from your magic. I think that’s one of my favorite things about you. When I was rotting in that cell, half crippled and dead from withdrawal, you came to me, all covered in light, I think. Your hands were so soft, and so cool, and then you gave me a relief I had never been offered. Even at my worst in Kirkwall, not a single person could spare a shred of kindness. And you—my enemy—spared me more kindness than I’d seen in ten years from anyone, and that's a kindness I knew I'd never be able to repay. So I vowed to protect and serve you, as any knight should be honored to do. And what an honor it was, princess. You've taken me to some amazing places in the years since I pledged myself to you._

_I knew, when I saw you draining yourself to heal me, that I would give anything for one kiss from you. Just one to bless me and send me to the Maker. But instead you argued with Cullen and I lay there wishing not for the first time that I was him. I selfishly and foolishly wondered how he could take a woman like you for granted._

_And many weeks later, you kissed me, and I was lost._

_If I hadn’t been destined for the grave, I would have asked if you wanted an heir. A son. A daughter. A piece of us together that we could raise to be a better person than I ever was. But we both knew what we signed up for when you didn’t send me away that night._

_I know I won’t live to see you catch that elf bastard, and there’s likely a good deal of help needed back home in Hercinia. You've still got students who need your guidance, but I don’t want you taking on that burden by yourself so consider this your last order from the Red General: don't be afraid to ask for help. Don't let foolish pride win._

_I left a book for you in the house for when you get back home, I think you might like it, and something of mine that I wanted you to have. Maddox made it for me, but I think you’ll take better care of it than I can at this point._

_I’m going to miss you, princess. I’m going to miss the smell of your hair, the feel of your skin, and that silly laugh of yours. You gave me something no one’s ever given me, something I didn’t know I needed until it was in my arms, and in my heart, and ringing in my head, and every time you looked at me I felt it. So dry your eyes, lovely, and keep the memories we’ve made close to your heart. That’s where I keep mine. Remember what I taught you, and remember that there’s still room to learn more. You’ve got a heart like an open book and I just hope you never close it after I’m gone. There’s plenty others that need your kindness, worse off than me._

_So thank you, for everything, princess. Thank you for showing me what being home felt like, and for believing in me. Maker, I miss you already. I love you, and I know we’ll meet again one day, at the Maker’s side or elsewhere. Love you too damned much not to._

_—Raleigh_

Hadiza pressed the letter to her chest, curled up in her hammock, and wept. There was joy in it, and grief, an insurmountable grief that something beautiful she had forged with someone had been taken before she was ready to let go. But he’d known—he had always known—and he’d prepared for it. Even now, she felt the sorrow ebb as her pillow grew moist with her tears. She mouthed the words she would never say to him again, mouthed them until they were as rhythmic as the Chant itself, until her grief and love mingled in her heart. She sucked in a shuddering sob, her nose running, and hugged the letter tighter, the last piece of him. The other part he’d left her was a steel bird, strung on a chain. He’d told her the story behind it once, but she knew without needing to ask that it was the most important story to him. Sniffling, she slipped the chain over her head, letting the steel bird nestle beside her.

Empty of grief, she folded the letter, and held it close.

A week later, she disembarked in Tevinter to meet with Samson’s contact.

_We’ll find people he doesn’t know_. She remembered herself saying firmly, and as she waited on the docks, she felt a hand on her shoulder, gentle and insistent. It was the only signal she received before she was led further into the city’s alley-ridden heart, to an empty warehouse where a woman waited for her. She was tall and statuesque, her hair the color of pale wheat, bound in two braided chignons. As she turned, Hadiza knew from the way she carried herself that she was a mage.

“Welcome to Tevinter, Inquisitor,” she said with a gap-toothed smile, “Samson spoke highly of you.”

Hadiza nodded. “Then I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage. He made no mention of you until recently.”

The woman shrugged. “I like to maintain my anonymity. It is vital to the rebellion. Your friend, Magister Pavus, has been an integral aid to the cause.”

She held out her hand. “My name is Calpernia.” She said calmly, and Hadiza took her hand firmly, “And I have been informed that we have a common enemy.”

* * *

( Art by me )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My lovely readers,
> 
> So we have reached the end of the longest fic I have ever written in life. I’m sure most of you are relieved to finally hear me stop blabbing about it, and others are sad to see it end for some reason. But I have to say I have never had more fun writing something than I have writing this fic and sharing it with you all. While my excursion into the Dragon Age fandom has been awful most of the time, I will say that I enjoyed producing content for it irrespective of the dust-ups with other fans, the petty squabbles, and the bigotry I still face on a daily basis. I’d like to thank the lovely folks of the Black Emporium Gchat for their continued support, solidarity, and encouragement, the mutuals who listened to me bemoan this fic for months while I agonized over it night and day, the readers who supported me in silence, the Unicorn Shieldmaidens who motivated me to keep writing, the other Samson fans who kept the party going, and the secret bookmarkers. And I'd especially like to thank the people who commented on every chapter…I hope you find money on the ground tomorrow. And of course, the developers for crafting such a fun world to create and play in.
> 
> Hadiza's story isn't done, as you can see, but I like to think the love story between her and Samson, as unexpected and delightful as it has been to write, got the ending it deserved. I didn't realize when I was drafting the first 'it was supposed to be a one-shot' story, how important their relationship would become to me. And I appreciate all of you who, even though you weren't really about Samson, decided to stick around and see how their story played out. I wanted to do him justice--to do _them_ justice--and so this story was born. So thank you so much for coming along for this doubtless wild ride. It means a lot.
> 
> —Muse


	38. Author's Notes: Lore & Meta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just some references from the fic, as well as meta for how I built Rivain. Some of it was included in the story, a lot of it wasn't. But it was built as a fresh world with the intention of playing in it later. All of this meta is also available to read on my blog.

**ON TATTOOING, MAGES, & SELLSWORDS IN RIVAIN**

So, you have Rivaini nobility and then the commonfolk and merchant class.

Rivain–like Tevinter–takes magic seriously and being a mage is considered a respectable thing and not a curse like the Chantry makes it out to be. The noble houses usually rejoice when a mage is ‘born’ in their midst, and some of the older families took to inbreeding to strengthen the potency of their magical bloodline (House Fayé, Hadiza’s mother’s noble House, did this), and eventually only took to marrying other magically-inclined families (as evident in the marriage of Babacar and Oluremi).

So basically, in House Fayé, and indeed in some of the other noble Houses as well, mages receive tattoos denoting their position and school of magical expertise. In House Fayé this rite is known as the _Tawada Jiki_. It is not unlike the _valaslin_ of the Dalish, only the markings are imbued with ‘buried spells’ in the ink. The mages are first prayed over by the seers of the House, and then marked with protection magic. This process can take days, and the mage receiving the marks is sequestered away from others until the rite is complete.

After they receive their full marks (usually a symbol of their defining trait and their school of magic), they are celebrated, and must display their mark for all of the family to see and acknowledge. They become ‘blooded’ to put it loosely, and are inducted into the House as a full member.

This rite is one of the most sacred, and so when rogue mages hire their skills out to pirates and merchants, it is considered highly disrespectful and tawdry. Usually these rogue battlemages cobble together their ink from stolen materials and imbue it with spells that may wear off with time. More successful raiders–usually those who are part of a fleet or armada–have their entire crews marked by the ship’s resident battlemage, from the captain to the lowest cabin boy. This ensures a more successful voyage, especially during battles and raids.

Aja was marked by a battlemage during her time crewing as a pirate in her adolescence and early adulthood. House Fayé finds this distasteful, and refer to her marks as the marks of a thief and not the _Tawada Jiki_.

One thing that is frowned upon in Rivain is anyone who sells their sacred art for coin. So mercenaries (like Hadiza’s mother, who sold her hard-won skills as a warrior/rogue to get by when she was banished) and mercenary battlemages are generally looked upon with disdain. But they are also very expensive to hire.

Traveling merchants who come from powerful families and have the coin can usually employ more than one mage on their journey, as can a raider. Raiders who have more than one battlemage in their crew are the most dangerous, but very few can keep them employed for long.

* * *

**ON RIVAIN: HAIR, HENNA, INK, STATUS**

Based on a conversation with AO3 write Oh_Kaeshy, author of  _The Moon in Her Mouth_ and  _A Thousand Stars Between Teeth_.

So again, class plays a role in this. The nobility’s hair would be more elaborate, decorated. For a smaller scale example, I’ll use Hadiza’s family, House Fayé.

The seers traditionally wear their hair in locs, twisted into an elaborate pompadour that feeds into a braid own their backs. Seers are inducted at a young age and begin locing their hair around 10. By the time they are fully initiated, their locs are long enough to be put into the style.

So, as children, seers have their baby locs wrapped in dark, shining thread and twisted into elaborate shapes, denoting their child status.

As adolescents, their locs are gathered into large Bantu knots.

And as adults, the aforementioned pompadour/french-braid combo.

In the case of regular Rivaini hairstyles and cosmetics:

The nobility of Dairsmuid paint their eyebrows gold, and line their eyes in heavy black. It’s also common for the outlying towns and villages to ‘rep their set’ with markings around the mouth denoting their clan or house. In the past, scarification was used, but now they simply use cosmetics to paint on their markings, and in the cases of the really devoted and loyal, tattoos.

Commonfolk also paint their brows, usually silver or some softer metallic color. Prostitutes in the flesh quarter of the city tend to paint their brows red, and decorate their groin and breasts with designs in a matching shade. The prostitutes of Dairsmuid are known for their infamous ‘red lips’ as they use henna to dye their pubic hair, which sometimes stains the labia and penis a vivid red. To that end, the act of dying the pubic hair with henna is considered an ‘unclean’ act to the nobility. This practice is mostly done in the capital, but the rest of the country tends to follow their lead.

The henna designs are temporary, yes, but prostitutes tend to stain the edges of their feet (not the soles) and dust their toes with gold. They stain their hands with henna but leave a small circle of exposed flesh in the center of their palm, and dust their fingertips with gold. This is actually a sort of mockery of the nobility, whose brides also decorate their hands and feet with henna. The gold dust is optional.

So, popular styles in Rivain include Bantu knots, either with thread-wrap or fully exposed hair, hair extensions with box braids, bush baby styles, and the _shuku_  hair style that is an echo of the crown the Queen herself wears. That’s popular amongst young girls in Ayesleigh. Men and women tend to grow their hair out evenly, although it is not uncommon to find men with undercuts or hawks.

Actual tattooing is reserved for nobility and anyone who can afford it. But [I’ve touched on that before](https://giwatafiya.tumblr.com/post/140315985507/on-tattooing-mages-and-sellswords-in-rivain).

* * *

**ON NAMES OF POWER & ATTRIBUTES**

So here’s more meta no one asked for but whatever. I based this off of the naming ceremony I had as a baby, and all my siblings had. Also took a cue from classic fantasy tropes a la Ursula Le Guin and names of power (this is also a common magical practice in pagan rituals done back home).

In my story, _Maledictus_ , Hadiza’s mother mentions having to give up her Rivaini name to marry her Marcher husband, whose mother insists that she must take on a ‘proper Andrastian name’ in order to marry into the family. Now, Maribasse was a woman who like most Rivaini, was quite proud of her heritage. Despite what she did, despite her being wholly banished from her homeland, she retained her roots and heritage, and her name was one of the deepest connections to that culture.

So, when Rivaini people are born, the baby is not named for seven days. This does not mean the parent has not decided on a name, but there are rituals to prepare for the Naming Ceremony, and the newborn must have their head shaved and must be overseen by a seer to divine the attributes they will embody in their life.

Now, the day of the Naming Ceremony is a time for feasting and celebration and pride. Parents may throw open the doors of their home to any and everyone wishing to participate - no one is turned away (although this is more debatable in the noble houses). The baby is given three names, the first of which is their primary attribute they will embody in life, with the other two being a name of power and a name of love. The name of attribute is given by the seer overseeing the ceremony. A name of power is a name that can magically bind the child and so that name is kept secret, known only to the mother. The name of love is one the parents choose together, and can be anything.

And then there’s the baby’s surname which according to tradition is usually the mother’s family’s surname or the father’s depending on the choice. Although the lines of the noble houses are matrilineal, many Rivaini have adopted the practice of patriarchal naming.

After the baby is named, there is feasting (a lot of feasting and celebrations in Rivain), partying, and the adults gather to celebrate the new member of the household who likely isn’t cognizant of anything going on.

Alright, so now you have background.

Now, I based Andrastian christenings off of classic Christianity naming ceremonies. Usually, when missionaries come to Nigeria, they force converts to take ‘Christian names’ which is also a mark of cultural genocide and imperialism. It is a classic ‘erase the uncivilized savage’ practice that’s been in play since the colonial days.

In any case, the significance of this is there’s a great deal of mistrust and bigotry toward Rivaini people because the Chantry views Rivain as a heathen country that refuses to bend to their whim, even after the three Exalted Marches and the Purge. The significance of Maribasse giving up her Rivaini name to marry her husband is rooted in cultural genocide and antiblack racism.

That being said, when Maribasse names her children, she defies this by giving them Rivaini names first, and Andrastian names second.

_Hadiza Evelyn Trevelyan._

 

> _Hadiza (attribute) - The Hausa form of Khadijah. ‘Trustworthy.’_
> 
> _Evelyn (Andrastian) - There’s a lot of conflict surrounding the meaning of this name and its origin. Said to mean ‘hazelnut’ but also said to mean ‘radiance’ or ‘beauty.’_
> 
> _Trevelyan (Surname) - ‘Homestead on the hill.’_

_Hajara Tremaine Trevelyan._

 

> _Hajara (Attribute) - ‘One who has traveled.’ She shortens it to Aja._
> 
> _Tremaine (Andrastian) - A surname meaning ‘from the town encircled by stone.’ Fitting for a child of Ostwick._
> 
> _Trevelyan (Surname) - ‘Homestead on the hill.’_

The only she didn’t keep this practice with was Ariadne, and that was because Frederick chose the name, not her. It was her gift to him.

* * *

**ON RIVAIN: LOKACIN DA JINI & THE TUNANIN FESTIVAL**

Based loosely on the Durbar Festival in Nigeria (which is a huge thing that happens in Kaduna and Zaria around Eid). I’ve taken some liberties with [this codex entry](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fdragonage.wikia.com%2Fwiki%2FCodex_entry%3A_The_Llomerryn_Accords&t=N2I1ZTMxY2M1ZWEzNjY5Yjg2ZDc3ZDMwYTdhOGZjODBiYTMyY2U3Yyx6aDlRZEZxeA%3D%3D).

After 7:84 Storm, when the Purge was taking place by Chantry and nationalist forces in Rivain (known to the people as _Lokacin da Jini_  or ‘Time of Blood’), the outlying towns and villages were gathered by the noble houses to beat back the Chantry’s efforts to put the nonbelievers to the sword, and to protect those unarmed who were primary targets for the massacre. One of those families was House Fayé, known for its elite and powerful battlemages and their warriors of Zazzau who make up a majority of the horsed cavalry of the Queen’s forces.

This time was a victory for the city of Zazzau, who had never known the occupation of the Chantry nor been taken by the Qunari. House Fayé’s scions worked to achieve a delicate political balance, even after the 150 years of war that ravaged the land and soaked it in blood.

To commemorate this time, both as a time of memorial to the dead, and a time of victory for Zazzau, they hold the annual Tunanin Festival. The warriors and battlemages reenact famous skirmishes and battles on horseback, culminating in a glorious display by the seers to remember those whose lives were lost during that time.

Like most Rivaini festivals and events, there is feasting and revelry afterward, and the scions of House Fayé give _sadaka_ (charity) to those in Zazzau who cannot afford to celebrate. This charity usually consist of money, food, or clothing for the poor; medicine or treatment by the healers to the sick and disabled, or even new texts to the school in Zazzau for the children to expand their learning.

* * *

**THE BAOBAB FOREST OF SEERE**

Because I’m pretty much done with the DA fandom, and my major fics are all complete, I figure I’ll share my headcanons and worldbuilding regarding Rivain. Some of it is pulled from my culture, other is from original work I scrapped but found a way to work into the DA-verse I've built.

Every year, there isa great pilgrimage. The seers of the noble houses, the seers of the backstreet markets, the seers who beg coin in the streets all travel to the city of Seere, one of the most holy places in Rivain. The pilgrimage is said to be one of the few times Rivain is every truly at peace as the powerful women make their way across the country.

Within its demesne is a forest of baobab trees, whose wood is used to make their staves. But one particular tree is the most sacred of all. The oldest of them, whose roots reach deep, tapping veins of lyrium in the rocks, giving it magical properties.

_Uwar Tushen_. Mother Root.

It is this tree, the eldest, the mother of the trees around it, that the seers pay respects to. The legends say Uwar Tushen is the source of a Rivaini seer’s power, and that every seer draws from the tree to dream deeply and to let spirits ride them. It is forbidden to make a staff from the wood of Uwar Tushen because of this. The other trees around it are fair game.

The seers have a council, upon which every clan, noble house, and village are represented, in order to maintain a united front and a connection to mages all over Rivain.

What goes on during the pilgrimage, no one knows, and it stays between the seers who attend. However, when they return, it is said the knowledge and peace they gain enrich their lives forever.


End file.
